


Tales From Neibolt

by ErraGray



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, It - 2017
Genre: Derry (Stephen King), Derry (Stephen King) is Terrible, Gen, Homophobic Language, Horror, No Romance, Pennywise (IT) is His Own Warning, Scary, The Losers Club (IT) All Appear, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21846700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErraGray/pseuds/ErraGray
Summary: Various stories of Its victims at different time periods. No romance, just It hunting and terrorizing the sheep around Its Derry killing pen. Maturin will make the occasional appearance along with the occasional Loser.Artwork featured in this story belongs to me, if you wish to see more: alstanfordart on Tumblr and alstanford on Deviantart.
Kudos: 5





	1. Amelia-2016

**Amelia-2016**

Amelia, a short stocky woman in her early forties, stumbled along the road, her dark brown hair stringy and obscuring her face as she kept her eyes on her phone. The moonlight reflected the glass bottle of Bob Gray beer she clutched as she madly texted her friend Jennifer. She was wearing a red and white striped sweater a few sizes too big, the edges falling over her fingers as she typed and ripped jeans. Both stained with some unidentified substance. Jennifer had left the party early and was pissed off with her. Apologies would need to be made the next day, no doubt. Since being all over your friend's boyfriend wasn't acceptable behavior. But hey, she was wasted. Jennifer had to know at this point Amelia was unpredictable when intoxicated.

Fuck u.' was the last exchange from Jennifer.

Amelia kicks a tin can out of her path with her red heel, observing her surroundings. She was coherent enough to see where she was now; on Neibolt Street.

_Aw, yes. The haunted street._

At least that's what they say. They being the good townsfolk of Derry. Boring ol' Derry. Boring until you scratch the surface. The myths surrounding the dilapidated old house that loomed over the neighborhood like a bad smell had been around since at least the 1700s. The well house, it was called. Her parents, who had been cultists, had told her the tales. They had been obsessed with the place. Along with a strange church with oddly angular architecture that had been built not far away.

The one with that fairy door that led down into the sewers.

After they had suddenly decided to leave the town and took her, moving clear across the country, there had been no more mention of the house or the church. After they both passed, she'd returned to live with the her mother's parents. Although when they were still alive, they had been against her returning to the sleepy little town. But, no other relatives were around, all dead or moved to unknown locations.

The only other option was to come to come back to Derry.

It had been an adjustment. She didn't know them. At all. But they had been so kind, she wondered why her mother had cut herself off from them. Personality differences maybe. But she was happy, even if their house had reeked of moth balls and they listened to old jazz records. John Coltrane and Miles Davis being their favorites.

Making friends had been even harder. Her friendship with Jennifer was strained at best. They's been best friends since high school, they were bonded. Both had had cultists for parents, and there was an understanding between them. Nobody else really understood what they had gone through.

Of course, this latest stunt at the party would need patching over.

She comes to a stop in front of the well house's old wrought iron fence. Sunflowers spurted out of the ground around the place, giving it the only touch of lightness in a blanket of rotting wood and grass clearly starved for water. She cocked her head at the door. She had heard, from only a select few, mainly other children of cult members that there was a clown. A clown that was sometimes seen at Neibolt. Always seen at times of disaster, kind of like mothman.

An idea occurred to her, a completely insane idea. She was buzzed and feeling a little reckless.

_Fuck it. Let's see if it's true._

She marches towards the front door, tossing aside her bottle of booze. It hits the ground with a clink as she stands before the door. Charily, she reaches for the knob and turns it, the aged metal squeaking.

_Let's find out what's here. I'm not afraid of some clown._

She makes her way inside, hitting the flashlight app on her phone. When the light flickers on, she sees the inside matches the out; creepy as Hell. Spiderwebs spread throughout every crevice, a fireplace emblazoned with 'Good Cheer, Good Friends' and the creaky old staircase leading up to the second floor. Dare she walk up them? They don't look stable. The place also had a weird odor, musty mixed with dirt and leaves. She lets out a sharp yelp as she spots an abnormally large spider crawling along the railing.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she starts. "If there is something in this house. A spirit...or whatever….what the fuck ever..." she declares, pausing to cough into her forearm. "Hey, come out. Come on man. I wanna know if you're real." she slurs.

_Fuck this is stupid. What am I doing?_

_Bam!_

"What the Hell?" she jumps up, almost falling over as she untangles her legs. "What is that?"

"Helloooo _Amelia_." comes a deep voice from nowhere.

Her mouth gapes, her breath visible as a cold chill envelopes her. It was a hot summer night, such a thing shouldn't happen. She fumbles with the light on her phone. "Oh, God, oh God,"

"Your God can't help." came that same disembodied voice. Mocking, menacing.

"Wha-" Her eyes darted around the room. "Who's there? Who are you?"

"You _knoooow_."

Her flashlight now goes out completely. "No!" she yells, as she manages to flick it on again. Just as she did, she saw it, the light illuminating the features of a clown. Standing right across from her. A neutral look on his face.

Amelia stumbles back, terror creeping through her bones."W-Who…" she stutters. Just then, her light goes out again, with a shake of her phone its shining once more. Lifting it up to where the clown was standing, she lets out a scream.

No clown, this time, instead her father.

A man who was dead and buried was standing before her.

He's holding up a bloodied knife, pieces of skin falling off his face, a maniacal grin stretching across his features.

"Milly, don't scream! Don't you wanna play?" he laughs, charging at her, knife waving. She backs up shrieking, trying to dodge the blade. Just then, she feels hands grab her from behind. Cold, callused hands. She whirls around and sees her mother, only she's looking like she did the last time she'd seen her; in her casket, same soft pink dress with the white pearls. Others proceed to come out of the various dark corners of the room, familiar faces from a past long ago, both adult and children alike. Zombies, with dead listless eyes and pale gray skin. Their moans drowning out Amelia's hysterical screaming.

She dashes for the door, only to see its blocked by more of them, swaying, limping, reaching out for her and grasping her sweater.

Tying her down to a table with old ropes, they stand circling her as tears stream down her cheeks, dripping onto the tabletop as she turns her head in the direction of a figure, much taller than the others, his abnormally large head topped with blazing orange locks.

The clown again. He stands silent, his yellow-red eyes boring through her. "Amelia," his voice is rasping. "Welcome. You wanted to see me. Here I am," he gives a little chuckle. "You weren't expecting it, were you?"

Amelia shakes her head languidly, the clown becoming a blur through her stinging watering eyes. "No, no, no…" she wails, as she squirms, gaining her composure long enough to focus her gaze on the clown. He smiles as if sensing her emotions. She closes her eyes, hoping this is a nightmare that will end. However, when she opens them...

It's Jennifer. Standing there, giving a disgusted head shake. "You treat your friends like shit. Or rather friend. I have been nothing but good to you."

Amelia sucks in her lips, holding back a sob. "I'm sorry."

And in the blink of an eye, the clown is back."Beautiful fear…" he whispers as he calmly watches as his minions tear her to shreds, her screams cut off as her mother tears into her neck.

_It feasts. The girl's terror had flavored her flesh delectably. The best It had had in a long time. Truth is, It had seen her passing by, and had influenced her to come to the house. It recognized her as one of the Offerings; children sacrificed to It by the human cultists who viewed It as a God. Aware of Its presence, the'd built a church in honor of It and regularly sent children down to their deaths. However, this girl's parents balked at her being chosen to be sacrificed and had instead fled from town._

_But now It has claimed what It was promised._

_The fact that so many were willing to offer up their own offspring was amusing to It. Humans had a thirst for both power and answers to the unknown. That usually led to their own demise. Their feeble minds would be unable to comprehend what lies beyond. One of the reasons that Its natural form left them either dead, or completely mad._

As It ate, It hears tiny 'pinging' sounds. It stands and approaches a light in the center of the room, the bells of Its suit jingling. It's the girl's phone. Its golden eyes scanning the incoming texts from the one named Jennifer.

'Where r u?' I'm worried.'

Pennywise, mouth smeared with blood, grins as It types a response.

'at neibolt. come and get me.'


	2. Alison-1989

The school buses were parked along the road in front of Derry High School, just as all the children were piling out the front doors, anxious to get home, jumping on their bikes and skateboards. All of them in clear anticipation of Summer vacation, as it was only a few weeks away.

Alison, one of the drivers, stood leaning her lithe frame against the bus she'd been hired to drive only several months earlier, her long glossy black hair pulled into a loose low-hanging ponytail, her arms folded as she watched some remaining children still meandering in the school's courtyard. She adjusts the blue baseball cap she had on as she gazed over at the sign just outside the building; 'remember the curfew' written in bold ebony lettering. The number of missing in the area led to the town being put on surveilence. While the excitement of Summer was building, the only damper was the ever-growing number of mysterious disappearances.

So far only one student had made his way onto her bus, carrying a small boom box blasting Technotronic's 'Pump Up The Jam.'

She sighs as she sees four foul-mouthed and obnoxious boys come into view where she was standing. The Bower's Gang, they were once referred to, although she was unsure of which one was Bowers himself. Possibly the one with the mullet and the angry eyes.

They were tormenting a younger boy who seemed to be a favorite target of theirs, snatching his black kippah off his nest of light brown curls.

"Hey, give it back!" Stanley cries out, reaching up as Patrick held it high above his head.

"Take it," he taunts, dangling it in front of Stanley. "C'mon faggot!"

He tosses it to Vic like one would toss a frisbee, who in turn passes it to Belch, as it reaches Henry's hands, he slowly steps up to Stanley, his slightly beady eyes narrowing, pinching the kippah between his thumb and index.

"You want it?" he growls, his breath only a few inches from Stan's face, before he suddenly freezes, taking notice of something just beyond the younger boy's shoulder, his eye sockets now widened, like a deer caught in headlights.

A cop car suddenly pulls up to the other side of the road across from the school. The driver's side window rolls down and Oscar Bowers glowers at his hooligan son, resting his elbow on the door, not uttering a single word. Alison cannot make out his expression behind his dark sunglasses.

Henry stands watching, the air shifting to something more tense, as both father and son engage in an unspoken exchange, before Henry shoves the kippah at Stanley's chest, nearly knocking the boy down.

"Take it." he mutters before motioning for his sycophants to follow him, sending a passing glance back at the older Bowers.

Stanley is subsequently approached by three other boys, with one audibly saying, "F-f-f-fuck B-b-b-Bowers."

The smallest one, a hyper boy sporting a fanny pack, gazes at Alison, a look of apprehension.

He's the one with the over-protective mother. She'd heard one of the other students mention it before.

Scrawny sad little thing.

Alison turns her attention back to the bullies as they make their leave. The appearance of Officer Bowers had altered their personalities. They became quiet, somber as they all jump into a blue Trans Am, speeding off down the road and vanishing around the corner.

What a disgusting boy. All of them.

Maybe I should lure them in next.

Yes, upon her arrival in Derry from the neighboring Bangor-wanting a change after her divorce- she'd been given a special welcome from someone-or something-she didn't know. First hearing the whispers drifting out through the kitchen sink in her modest new home.

We are Legion, the voices chanted.

It wasn't until she'd been drawn to that old strange house on Neibolt Street that she'd made the discovery; a clown. Pennywise, he called himself, that lived beneath Derry, that was feeding on the town's children, along with the occasional adult. Although children were his preference. This thing had promised her a wealth of rewards if she'd aid him in his hunting. With one touch, eternal life could be hers. Money. A bigger, more lavish home. Everything she could want and more.

She'd fed him some children already, and promised him more. A part of her actually liked it, found it thrilling. The choosing of the child and then the luring. Like a spider tempting a fly into its web. He sometimes killed them in front of her.

She enjoyed watching.

Glancing over at the mother of Betty Ripsom, who had been religiously standing outside the school everyday, she felt a small twinge of remorse. Only a little, burrowed deep within the exhilaration. Betty had been her first victim, luring the child to the Barrens and she was subsequently snatched up by Pennywise, dragging her tiny frame down into the depths of the sewers, her shoe falling off in the process.

She pushes any sense of lingering guilt aside as she turns and gets back into the bus as the children all finally take their seats inside. Whispering to each other, staring out the window at the grenery blurring by as the bus picks up speed. One student, however, sits up, realizing that they were taking a little longer to get to the first stop.

"Hey, Ms. Sawa? Where we going?" she queries, brows knotting together as she cranes her neck to glimpse the unfamiliar surroundings they'd entered.

No answer. Alison makes a turn alongside a dirt road that leads to a steep cliff overlooking a murky lake.

She then steps on the gas.

"T-t-t-they h-h-haven't been a-a-ble to-to f-f-find the d-driver," Bill says as he, Eddie, Richie and Stanley linger outside the school the following morning. Police cars were parked along the roadside, with officers swarming around, questioning students, their parents and teachers.

"She's probably dead. None of the kids survived, she probably didn't." Stanley replies somberly.

"I'm telling you guys, there was something not right with that lady," Eddie says, his arm movements spastic as he spoke. "I'm telling you, she did it on purpose. I'm telling you. Nobody goes off a cliff like that on accident. The look in her eyes, I knew she was a crazy bitch!"

"W-w-we d-d-don't k-k-k-kno-" Bill begins before he's cut off by Officer Bowers.

"You four." he says, as he gestures them over to where he's standing near the curfew sign, slipping off his shades. They heed, charily approaching him, Bill leading the way as Stan dawdled behind, as he usually did.

"What can you tell about Ms. Sawa?"

"W-w-w-we d-don't r-r-real-ly -k-know h-her." Bill manages as Oscar looks more than a little perturbed at the rate in which Bill is responding. He glances to Richie.

"How about you? All of you?"

"No sir." Richie shakes his head. Stanley and Eddie mimic him, both uttering 'no' in unison.

"Well, run along then." Oscar slips his glasses back on and saunters off.

All four boys speedily make their way inside the school entrance.

Beneath the town Alison had taken refuge within Pennywise's lair-at least she thought it was his lair. It certainly looked like it with the pile of trophies along with the corpses of the town's missing floating above it at the tip. Almost peaceful. Whatever he was, he clearly possessed great powers. Abilities that she had only caught a brief glimpse of. It excited her to think about what else he could do.

He'd not appeared when she first left the scene of the accident and fled to Neibolt under the cover of night, at first hiding in a dilapidated old shack in the Barrens, listening to the sounds of the sirens blazing.

It looked like a mere accident, under Pennywise's influence, she won't be discovered. Just an unlucky woman, but the high she'd felt driving towards the edge of the cliff was unmatched, only perhaps by the high that she'd felt knowing he'd been there.

She just did something unspeakable. For him.

Pennywise was around she was sure. Lurking, probably off hunting. As she sat on the wagon emblazoned with 'Pennywise The Dancing Clown,' her ears pricked at the sound of diminutive jingling bells and a small smile blooms across her features.

There he stood at the bottom of the junk pile, his off-white suit highlighted by the minimal light creeping in from above, gazing up at her with a neutral expression. She hops down and tracks across the various items, stepping over a soggy dirty mattress, as she comes to a halt before his massive frame.

"They're looking for me I'm sure, but they won't find me here," she smiles up at him, his mien still stoic, unresponsive. "They probably think I'm dead, but I can just stay here..."

As she talked, It studied her. It knew what kind of human she was. It had in Its millennia of existence came across these types. Desperately searching for some meaning in their life. Lost, pathetically needy souls. Willing to kill their own mothers for some kind of acceptance.

She was, as It saw in her diseased mind, looking for something beyond being what she currently was-a tool. A game. A pawn.

The thought disgusted It beyond belief.

However, it had also made it fairly easy to manipulate her. It had not even influenced her to drive that bus off the cliff. She'd done it on her own. While it was soaking up the sorrow now washing over the town over the children's deaths, it was also disgusted; good meat had gone to waste.

"So, I know you're alone down here." Alison reaches up to touch his white face, only to have him grip her wrist before her fingertips can touch his white cracked cheek.

Pennywise doesn't respond, he just moves in, quickly grabbing her about the throat, giving a raspy cackle, the sound echoing throughout the cisterns around them. She coughs, her air cutting off, reaching up to try to pry his bony fingers from her neck.

"I am alone and I prefer it that way. I've no use for attachments," His eyes glow brighter, a stunning shimmery yellow-gold. "Especially not to a parasite like yourself. I did nothing. I did not influence you. You did it of your own volition." he growls, his teeth now pointed and shark-like. She shrieks as he buries them into her shoulder, ripping away the flesh, the sensation like daggers, sharp burning and painful. It throws her to the ground, watering, stunned brown pupils glued on him.

She holds her shoulder, mouth gaping, silent. The pain she was feeling physically was nowhere close the emotional agony and humiliation that was searing through her. Almost as if it was setting her insides aflame. A single tear cuts down her milky cheek

No, this was not how it was supposed to be.

Pennywise kneels down by her. "Somebody has to take responsibility for the crash. When they find you, they will know. I will not aid you." he peers in her face, the scent of blood on his breath.

Her blood.

Alison screams as Pennywise grins, displaying his crimson-stained incisors. "How can you do this to m-" she's cut off by him gripping her cheeks, squeezing.

"I did nothing, it was all you," he replies, standing and looking down at her, lip curling as his teeth shrink. "Pathetic."

It influences a student from Derry High School to point in the direction of Alison. Saying he'd overheard her expressing contempt for the rowdy children she drove home. Her actions will not be viewed as a mere accident. The truth to be unveiled about that crash. Humans have no patience for ones like her. She will be seen as the true monster.

The next day, the town is abuzz with news of the seemingly innocent new arrival who had intentionally crashed a school bus into a lake off a cliff. She was found, half-crazed, down in the Barrens, bleeding profusely from a wound no doubt given to her by some kind of animal, possibly a rabid coyote or dog. She rambled endlessly about a clown monster killing the town's children, but no evidence was found to support her claims.

Only days later, the horrific accident and the insane bus driver were soon pushed out of Derry's collective consciousness.

She currently sits in Juniper Hill Asylum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alison appears in a flashback in my other work, Reverie, in the Chapter 'Myths.'


	3. Ron and Gary-1961

'I wandered so aimless, life filled with sin, I wouldn't let my dear savior in, then Jesus came like a stranger in the night, praise the Lord I saw the light.'

"C'mon man, hurry up!" Gary yells over the warbling of Hank Williams, as Ron emerges, zipping his fly, from the nearby bushes just off to the side of the road, the red neon sign above the door of the only gay bar in Derry, the Falcon, painting his lean frame in vibrant crimson. He wipes his nose with the cuff of his plaid sleeve as he hops back in Gary's blue and white Ford pickup. He pauses, as he briefly makes eye contact with an extremely tall, pale man in a black leather jacket with a copper tuft of hair, shoulder blades rested against the wall near the bar's entrance. A thin trail of vapor snakes around his head as he watches.

Ron gives him a dirty look before slamming the truck door. "I don't know what the fuck he's starin' at." He casually rolls down the window to spit his lump of chewing tobacco to the blacktop.

Gary, a smaller man with a visible five o' clock shadow and a head sparsely covered in gray hair, scrunches up his face. "Man, you shouldn't do that. Kinda nasty..."

Ron gives a subtle scoff, arching his brows, he turns to his buddy, elbow rested on the dashboard.

"Oh, you offended there, Holdsworth?" he queries, as Gary observes his reflection in the rear view mirror, reaching up to massage his stubble. Ron gives another scoff, this time more derisive.

"Worryin' about your facial hair? Damn, maybe you should be in there with the fags." he says as he digs his finger in his right ear.

"Look, Nat just doesn't like stubble. She says it makes her itch."

"Take your balls outta her purse, alright? Real men sport beards-just look at Paul Bunyan." he gives a cursory touch to his own dark thick hairy jawline peppered with gray streaks, his mind picturing the statue of the famed lumberjack on Main Street that the two had spent a fair amount of time loitering around well after midnight in their teens. Drinking, smoking and raising Hell.

"Now, let's get's outta here. I don't want anyone I know seeing me sittin' in front of this place." he adds.

On their way back from The Great Lost Bear, a bar two and a half miles down the road, the three pints Ron had consumed over the course of the evening to relax after a long strenuous day in the lumber yard had left his bladder about to burst and entering the Falcon to use their restroom was out of the question.

"Can't believe Elmer even lets that debauchery happen in there." Ron adds as Gary revs up the engine, his gaze landing on the strange man, unblinking and stone-faced, taking drawn-out drags from his cigarette nestled between his spindly fingers.

For a fleeting second, Gary seems to glimpse two tiny white spheres in the man's corneas.

"It's turnin' a profit...wonder who that is?' he inquires, craning his neck to peek around Ron's broad shoulders.

"Why? You interested?" Ron snickers.

"C'mon, cut it out. It's just he looks a...little weird." A few days before, the police had discovered a 1958 Chevrolet Impala that had belonged to two Beatniks that had been seen cruising around town, abandoned in a parking lot just a block away, dried blood cracked along the seats and smeared along the windows. Their bodies have yet to be found. Just as quickly as the news hit the papers, however, it was forgotten. He certainly didn't want to get caught out too late, not if there could be some psycho on the loose.

Something he wouldn't voice to Ron. No, such a concern would be met with taunts and accusations of being a "pansy."

"Just one of the queers." Ron dismisses, gesturing with an underhanded finger motion for Gary to hurry up and get going, as he treats the man to another glower as Gary pulls out of the driveway.

The drive is quiet, the road isolated, dark, without another soul in sight. It's almost disquieting, until Ron cracks open another beer from the remaining six-pack stored in the backseat as he turns up the volume on the radio and starts to croon along;

'Let me travel this land, from the mountains to the sea,'cause that's the life I believe, he meant for me, and when I'm gone, and at my grave you stand, just say God's called home, your ra-amblin' man-'

Wham!

Both men are suddenly jerked forward as something violently slams against the tailgate of the truck, Ron's beer spilling into his crotch as he curses.

"The Hell?" he growls as he turns to look at the culprit. All he sees are bright orange headlights, seemingly not attached to any vehicle.

Gary takes rapid peeks over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of the driver, as he rams into them again.

"What the Hell is this asshole doing?" Gary exclaims as he hits the gas. Ron keeps his gaze turned behind them, his lids now slitting as the other car's front window comes into view and he sees a silhouette of what looks like the man that had been standing outside the bar. His sleek black truck difficult to see in the pitch darkness.

"I think it's that weirdo from the Falcon," he says, crushing his half-spilled beer can, chucking it out the window, the remaining liquid splashing along the road. "He wants trouble, we can certainly give it to him." He flips the man the bird and his hand is immediately slapped down by Gary.

"Don't do that," he scolds. "He-"

Wham!

The man begins doing a continuous loop of bumping their tailgate and slowing down, only to speed up again and slam into them harder.

Gary decides to do a sharp skid off the side of the road down a dirt path, both men bouncing in their seats as he takes off down the gravelly trail that cuts through a field, turning to head the other direction.

"Hopefully we can loose him." he says as he does a u-turn, wheels trampling the tall blades of grass. Now heading the opposite direction, cautious relief washing over him as he eyes Ron, who looks angry, his mouth a quivering thin line.

"I wish we could get our hands on that little fucker, we coulda-"

"No," Gary cuts him off, inhaling deeply. "Don't bring that up. I'm not doing that shit again. They don't hurt nobody. We just forget that."

"Yeah, whatever," Ron shakes his head, disgusted mien shadowed in the darkness of the vehicle. "You know you-"

Just then the mysterious driver appears in their path, seemingly out of thin air, coming directly at them at full speed.

"What the fuck!" Gary shouts as the orange headlights illuminate the inside of their truck. Gary shields his eyes as he struggles to swerve out of the way.

"The fuck! He's gonna crash into us the crazy bastard! Step it up!" Ron yells, anger now dissolving into panic as he grips the steering wheel. They skid off the side of the road, Gary slams his foot on the breaks, bringing them to a screeching halt along the miry ditch along the roadside.

There's a few moments of tension, with their ragged breaths visible in the chilly night air.

"Jesus, that crazy asshole was gonna kill us," Ron breathes. "Maybe he has a death wish."

"I don't get it. How'd he come out in front of us?" Gary ponders as is head darts around, surveying the area, sweat just starting to pearl at the top of his forehead. The road they were on, Witcham, circled around a lake alongside the field. The man wouldn't have been able to come at them from the opposite direction without taking at least half an hour to drive around. The lake and trees made any shortcut impossible.

Just then, the radio begins to switch, jumping to different stations. Ron, eyes now bulging, silently elbows Gary as he stares at the dial visibly moving on its own. Gary's mouth gapes as both watch as it starts to shift back and forth, a barely-audible voice begins to emerge from the crackling static. Too distorted initially, before becoming louder, like the wails of a young man crying out in anguish.

"What the...what is that?" Ron breathes.

Louder and louder the voice cries, almost shrieking, until Gary reaches to shut off the dial, only to have it blare up again. Startling both men to fling open their respective doors to leap out.

"I don't know what's goin' on here." Ron shakes head as the the voice becomes more banshee-like, drifting outwards from the inside of the car and filling the murky air surrounding them, like an echo. Both men clamp their palms tightly to their ears as Gary manages to stumble inside and switch the dial off, the numbers glowing a dazzling orange-yellow.

"Let's go," he says, gesturing for Ron to get in. His friend heeds as Gary attepts to start up the engine.

"Shit..." he mutters.

"Lemme push." Ron offers as he jumps out to make his way to the tailgate. As he pushes, Gary slams on the gas and the truck rips out of the shallow ditch and Ron runs to take his seat.

"Go, go." he orders as he glances back to check for their attacker. No sign of those strange headlights in the distance.

His eyeline then lands on a shadowy figure standing near the ditch. Too dark to see, but clearly a young man, possibly a teenager.

That looks like...

It can't be him.

"Who is that?" he points back and Gary follows his gaze.

"I don't see anyone." he replies.

As both turn in unison to look ahead, they are met with a gory sight; on the hood of the truck is a young man, sitting cross-legged, eyesockets like pools of tar. His skin crumbling pieces of bloody strips.

And no mouth. Only pale skin with blue veins rooting along the surface.

He leaps upwards to the top of the truck, the shock causes Gary to swerve as both men scream in sheer horror.

"Ahhh! Fuck! What the Hell is that?!"

The ghoul disappears as Gary smacks into an ancient tree just near the edge of the lake, his skull cracking against the steering wheel as Ron hits the dashboard.

Gobsmacked, Ron sits frozen, blood coursing down his aching scalp and down his forehead, his lids fluttering as he tries to focus. He shakily reaches to touch Gary. He pushes his shoulder, but he only falls limp against the window. His brown pupils blank, lifeless.

Ron staggers out the truck, falling to ground, a stressed whimper escaping him as he comes to a halt along the swampy ground along the bank at a pair of muddy shoes. He charily gazes up, blood trailing from both nostrils as the mouthless spector stares down at him.

Seeing him up close made him more recognizable; Nathan Wells. He had been a sixteen year old student at Derry High School, rumored to have been gay. One drunken night Ron and Gary accosted him along the roadside while he was driving his father's truck, beat the boy with two-by-fours, tossed him into the truck and pushed it into the lake.

The same one he now sat beside.

"No," Ron wails. "No, no, it ain't you. It can't be." he hangs his head down and begins to quietly sob.

Then, something begins stirring beneath the surface of the water, now bleeding with irradiated orange light, the frenzied bubbling dying down as a pair of headlights become visible, followed by the hood of a black truck.

In a burst of energy, Ron shoots up as he sees it's the same phantom vehicle that had been menacing them, those orange-yellow lights coming closer as it comes to a stop along the bank. The driver's side opens and the odd man with the auburn hair steps out, a creepy visage highlighted by the moonlight, dark crescents beneath his eyes as he flicks his cigarette to the swampy earth.

Ron is immobilized, almost hypnotized by the lights, his irises mimic that same blinding glow as the man approaches, bringing those long tapering fingers to Ron's face. His mouth now becoming elongated with needle-like stained incisors.

"Beautiful, beautiful fear..." he mutters as he chomps down on Ron's jugular, blood spurting in runnels from his neck as the flesh is torn away. Ron falls to the ground, gaze fixed on eternity.

As It eats, It ponders. It had remembered these two and their act of violence that had awoken It twenty-seven years earlier.

Seeking them out, torturing and killing them was amusing.

After finishing devouring the flesh from Ron's corpse, It removes Gary's body from the truck and retreats back to Its lair.

It's a few days before the Ford truck is discovered under the giant tree, and after a brief investigation, the case is forgotten and the car taken to the junkyard where it sits alongside a 1958 Chevrolet Impala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Beatnik's story is told in flashback in Reverie, in the chapter titled 'Encounters.'


	4. Mike And Leroy Hanlon-1989

The yearly carnival in Bassey Park was always a success, with rides by Smokey's Greater Shows and games run by the local townsfolk. A success to others other than one Michael Hanlon.

While he enjoyed the event, he had been hoping to see the retired Canal Days Museum brought back, with various items from Derry's past hundred years, chronicling the town's history through photos, film reels and rusted worn-out artifacts. Perhaps that ancient tramp chair he'd heard about or photos of the Bradley Gang shoot-out. Although macabre, such things held a fascination for young Hanlon.

But no, instead there was nothing but game booths and a massive refreshment tent in Derry Park that resembled a circus tent with its thick red stripes but no museum. Not this year or the previous years. Interest seemed to have waned and the organizers decided that it was no longer a draw. A large stage with nightly band concerts was the replacement for what was deemed a bore.

The festivities were also a welcome escape from the recent tragic events involving a school bus driver and a growing number of missing.

Escapism was the usual remedy for Derry's troubles. Ignoring what is in plain sight seemed to be the go-to cure for many people not wanting to acknowledge certain things; another disappearance, usually a child, an uptick in violence, the somberness that hovered over the town like heavy storm clouds. Even when it was bright and sunny, there seemed to be a looming darkness constantly present.

Mike's grandfather was his company; the older Hanlon had to be encouraged for a night out with his grandson. Mike felt it was a nice escape from the daily stresses of the sheep farm. The older man's wariness towards the townsfolk, however, was putting a damper on Mike's enjoyment.

"The harder you work, the harder you play." Mike playfully elbows Leroy as they stroll through the energetic activity of Bassey Park; a coruscating light show of neon colors flashing, adorning the murky night sky above along with the boisterous laughter of the attendees. Leroy is decked out in his heavy brown jacket with the large red patch on the left breast and his usual green and white cap. Mike sported a gray sweater with a white tee underneath.

"We don't belong here, with these people." Leroy mutters as he surveys the crowd, the sparks of color enveloping them reflecting in his rich brown irises.

"I wish they had the museum with the town history," Mike says, ignoring his grandfather's comment. "I was hoping it would be brought back this year."

"History we don't share with these folks." Leroy adds. "Feels like we're foreigners in this town. We don't speak the same language as them."

Mike sighs as he catches a glimpse of Henry Bowers, chatting up a petite blond girl from their school, just beyond the bumper cars, Mike directs Leroy behind a cotton candy booth, the sides splashed with poorly-painted depictions of a clown with flame orange hair and a garish smile.

"Here," Leroy fumbles around in his pocket, presenting a dollar bill. "Get some."

Mike dutifully takes the money and promptly buys a cone of pink fluffiness, the gloomy-looking man in the booth giving him a barely-there smile as he presented it.

"Thanks." Mike says as he and Leroy continue on, with Mike keeping a sharp look-out for any other Bower's Gang members lurking around. He lifts the cone to offer some to his grandfather.

"No thanks." Leroy's says flatly. "Never cared for that stuff."

Mike shrugs as he spies a magnificent carousel just ahead of them, its ornate golden and silver mirrored panels outlined in orange-yellow lights. Large mirrors aligned along its center, framed in gold. Definitely a stand-out among the other rides. There wasn't much of a line, much to Mike's surprise, only a handful of other kids. Mesmerized, he tugs on Leroy's sleeve, maneuvering him towards the elaborate-looking display.

Standing beside it was an impossibly tall, lanky man dressed in ebony pants and a red jacket. A tuft of copper hair peeked out just beneath the rim of a top hat. Around his neck, a comically over-sized crimson bow tie. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of one of the old time photos of a ringmaster from the nineteenth century. Seems he was taking his role in the carnival to heart.

The carousel itself looked like it was from a time capsule, with painted landscapes on the rounding boards, large hand-carved wooden horses with wind-swept manes and sparkling bejeweled saddles emblazoned with golden leaves and vines. Tucked under the raised back of the saddles were smaller animals, such as parrots, squirrels and monkeys as well as tiny cherubs clutching horns.

The man with the top hat suddenly steps forward and gestures with a dramatic swooping motion for young Mike to come closer.

"It's the most fun at the carnival." he grins, his voice somewhat gravelly, motioning towards the carousel, gazing down at Mike with crystal azure eyes. The rim of the hat shaded his features, but his pupils almost looked like they were illuminated. Young Hanlon observes the man's face with his odd smirk and wide forehead.

"Yeah, I think it would be," Mike replies as he turns to his grandfather. "You going to...?"

"I'm fine here." Leroy replies, staring off, both hands in his jacket pockets.

Mike gives another shrug before stepping up to the carousel, still holding his cotton candy. He takes a seat on one of the horses along with several other children quietly following. He gazes out at the carnival goers, all laughing, drinking refreshments and conversing in lively conversation.

Still no sign of the rest of the Bower's Gang.

The tall auburn-haired man twirls his fingers as the ride begins, slowly. "I guarantee you," he declares, giving a wink. "This will be a ride you won't forget."

The carousel starts to gradually move as music starts to drift out into the night air, a song that seems an odd choice; Mozart's Requiem. As the carousel gains traction, a strange feeling of unease begins to bloom within Mike as he looks at the other children. All of them have their back to him, silent, their hands gripping the golden poles speared through the horse's saddles. The people standing around suddenly stop what they're doing, pausing in their activities with games and chatter to gawk, pointing and grinning.

Just as the crowd starts to gather, one of the other children glances over her shoulder at Mike, a maniacal grin on her face. Her expression sends chills throttling through him as her features begin to morph, her mouth expanding up to her eye sockets, displaying teeth blackened with rot, her pupils darkening, save for a tiny sparkle of yellow dots within the corneas.

The other children all turn in unison to face him, that same terrifying visage present as they start to cackle, their voices saturated with menace. Mike is now in full-blown panic as they start to look more ghoulish, more like zombies sitting upon the horses, whose carved eyes are now glowing fiery orange-yellow, pointed teeth protruding out from their curved lips as they begin neighing and violently kicking their hooves.

Before Mike can even think about leaping off, the vines adorning his horse's saddle slither around his waist, pinning him to his seat, his cotton candy cone tumbling to the ground. The undead children continue their laughing, their skin peeling off in bloody flaps, the spectators still chortling and pointing.

And his grandfather, where the Hell was he? Mike couldn't spot him in the crowd or anywhere, he'd vanished.

As the carousel starts to pick up speed, Mike glimpses his reflection in the mirrors, giving a startled yell as he sees his face starting to look old and haggard, with sunken dark half circles under the rims of his eyes and his hair now a longer, stringy, shocking white, as if he was aging at an accelerated speed. Chest heaving with terror, he reaches up to touch his cheeks, his flesh seemingly normal, the terrifying reflection nothing but an illusion.

As he struggles to free himself from the vines, almost falling off the saddle, their tendrils tightening around his waist, the tiny animal and cherub carvings then suddenly spring to life, leaping from their seats, grabbing at his hair and clothing.

"Aw! Get off!" he shouts as he swats at the creatures, a parrot aggressively trying to peck at his face, the monkey grabbing his shirt and scrambling up his back.

Just then, he sees him; the odd man with that top hat, now seated upon one of the possessed horses, his mien now becoming paler before young Hanlon's eyes. Blood red streaks snaking up towards his forehead from his lips that are now a dark ruby. Shark teeth sprouting from his mouth as he cackles.

Now he looked more like a clown.

The carousel is now spinning at an unearthly speed, the scenery completely vanishing and being replaced with a haze of rainbow neon, like a ship traveling at hyperspeed, just like in the Star Wars films Mike was fond of.

The strange man rises and starts towards Mike, who is becoming light-headed as he attempts to keep his balance, feeling a rustle of nausea beginning to take root in the pit of his stomach.

"Faster and faster around we go, when we stop nobody knows." the man intones as he stands, gazing down at Mike, long tapering gloves fingers encircling the poles, the speed and wind rushing through seemingly not affecting him. He then leans in near Mike's face, his breath pungent and insipid.

"Et non morieris." he growls under his breath, thin saliva strings dangling from his lips, his once clear blue irises shine brilliant yellow, tinged with amber.

Mike tucks his head down, as a new feeling breaks through the sheer terror; anger.

"Stop!"

With that, the chaos ceases. The cackling ugly voices, the rabid animals clawing at his skin, the sinister neighing of the horses. The children and the odd man are gone, replaced with the bustling voices of the carnival attendees as Mike dares to peer out from under his arms. Only the crowd, still engaged in their merriment, with but a few sending him a look of curiosity as he inspects his surroundings.

"You okay kid?" one random bearded man in a plaid shirt queries. Mike gives a polite nod as he continues to inspect the area.

No man with a top hat. No carousel. No dead children.

Nothing.

Just the uncut greenery on which he stood, no sign of a carousel, or any evidence one had been there. Only a large bare space. He charily begins to move, gazing around, trying to locate his grandfather. It's only a few moments before he spies him, stumbling out of the Hall of Mirrors, of all places.

"Grandpa!" Mike yells as he runs to him, just about knocking Leroy down as he hugs him.

"Mike..." his grandfather curves his arm around him. "I thought I lost you. Was thinking maybe you went into there," he nods toward the entrance, his brows knotting in confusion. "We seem to have gotten separated."

"I was on that carousel...didn't you se it?"

Please tell me you did.

"I didn't see no carousel. I think...I think we need to leave."

"Yeah," Mike nods rapidly, still getting over the intense fear and confusion trembling through him. "Yeah, let's get home." Mike places his arm about Leroy's back as they walk away, with Mike directing them away from Henry Bowers once more.

"Something wrong?" Mike glances up at Leroy. The older man's countenance quiet and troubled.

"I..." he hesitates. "Saw something in there..." he looks over his shoulder at the Hall of Mirrors, growing smaller as they walk farther away.

"What?" Mike halts to stare up at Leroy, who gives a morose shake of his head.

"Never mind," he replies, not wanting to mention the horrible sight he'd seen in the distorted mirrors; flames and people screaming, running for their lives, their cries still reverberating through his mind. "Let's just get outta here. I told you, we don't belong."

Mike gives a tacit nod, not wanting to argue. Arguing with his grandfather was like running a marathon with no end in sight, there was no winning. Whatever secrets he harbored, he wouldn't be sharing.

Just like the cursed town. Its secrets locked up within the city limits.

As they exit Bassey Park, Mike glimpses a large red balloon, completely isolated near a large oak, boldly printed with 'I Love Derry.'


	5. The Bradley Gang-1935

The lightning pulses across the gray October sky as Arthur, decked out in his spectacles he seldom wore, leans under the hood of the broken down LaSalle. George and Al stand beside him, restless eyes switching between the car's innards and the moonless cloudy night sky, with the storm just beginning to gather momentum. George has a small flashlight raised just above Arthur's head, highlighting the smoking engine.

George's wife Kitty remains inside the vehicle, fingering her compact mirror, trying in vain to powder her nose in the less than adequate lighting.

Parked just behind the LaSalle was a Chevrolet, with Joe's arm hanging out the driver window, cigar smoke clouding from his thin lips, elbow rested along the door. His brother Cal sat in the passenger seat, leaning on his hand, looking thoroughly bored with the situation. In the backseat are Marie and Patrick, with Marie leaning against his thick brown coat.

"Think we can get it going again?" George queries as he nervously casts his gaze around them, his timorous visage briefly made visible in the crack of light that splits across the sky. Marie nuzzles closer to Patrick, tucking her head down as thunder rolls above them. Patrick pulls her closer, stroking her brown curls.

"The engine's blown..." Al offers, ducking down to inspect closer.

"Aye. Seen better days, I'm sure," Arthur slams the hood down and wipes his hands with a stained white handkerchief from his pants pocket. "This ain't goin' nowhere, lads."

"Shit," George straightens as he switches off the flashlight. "What we gonna do?"

"Dunno." comes Al's simple reply.

They were safe, far away from the Lafayette city limits. After dumping the body of the banker they'd kidnapped in a swamp after collecting the thirty thousand in ransom money, they were on Route 2 in direction to a town called Derry after a brief stop in Augusta. Arthur, however, had his sights set on Bangor. When the LaSalle broke down just short of them reaching the Derry welcome sign along the shadows of the trees on the outskirts of the town.

A hush falls over the group as Al saunters out onto the middle of the road, sniffling and kicking a pebble aside. That's when he sees, in the far off distance, a pair of headlights appearing almost out of nowhere. He rushes to the driver's side of the LaSalle and reaches for his Colt .38 revolver-small and discreet, so as to be presented at the first sign of trouble.

He stands and waits as George tosses the flashlight in through the back window of the LaSalle and stands alongside Al, arms folded, not nearly as alert as his big brother.

Inside the Chevrolet, Patrick rests his hand on his Luger laying on the seat beside Marie that he'd stolen off the body of a Lafayette officer.

Meanwhile, Joe and Cal also ready their weapons, with Joe craning his neck out the window to view the car drawing closer.

Arthur casually strolls to the passenger side, eyeing his own much larger Remington 22. Al preferred a sneak up and get them approach. Arthur preferred things more direct. If whoever this was coming up the road was going to give them trouble, they would be dealt with accordingly before they even knew what hit them.

The car, a Ford Roadster, quietly comes closer, eerily serene, the headlights taking on a more orange tint as it draws near. It comes to a stop alongside the Chevrolet, the silhouette of a driver, a man with hat, is barely visible.

As he shuts the engine off, he sits a moment, George tightens his grip on his revolver as Arthur keeps watch on his Remington. Then the man leans over to the passenger side, rolling down the window.

"You needing some help there?" a gravelly voice drifts out of the Ford, a hint of a lisp making the 's' sound more like 'shum.' Al snatches up the flashlight and strolls over, shining it in the man's face and is a little taken aback by what he sees.

Scars. Thin pale scars, ever so faint, threading up the man's creamy cheeks, beginning at the corners of his mouth and ending just under the rim of his Homburg hat.

"You needing some help?" the scarred man repeats. "I've fixed a car or two here and there. I could take a look-see."

"Yeah, yeah...sure." Al replies, studying the man's features, with his square jaw and intense round eyes.

This guy looks like he knows where some bodies are buried.

Al tenses as the driver side door pops open and the man emerges, revealing an incredibly tall frame in a sleek gray suit. Certainly taller than all of the men in their group.

In fact, he was a good foot taller than Al.

No matter. If this fellow pulled any funny business, they outnumbered him.

"Here," the man saunters over to the LaSalle, popping open the hood. He reaches his long arms in and begins tampering with the wires. Not long after there's a loud 'pop' sound and the engine roars back to life, taking a few minutes to struggle before running smoothly. Arthur gives a pleased nod of his head.

"Thanks mate!" He gives the man an enthusiastic pat on the back as Al looks relieved, exchanging glances with George.

"What's your name , my good sir?" George inquires.

"Robert. Robert Gray. Although folks 'round here call me Bob."

The man shuts the hood and returns to his car, before he removes his hat to give his scalp a quick scratch, revealing a shock of auburn.

"You folks needing a place to stay for the night? Something tells me you'd rather not be in a motel. Gotta place just a mile up the road. Nice and cozy," he gazes at Kitty and Marie. "The ladies can clean up. Sit by the fire, get warm. Maybe a hot meal."

Arthur looks at both George and Al, who in turn glance to Joe and Cal, with Patrick keeping his eyes on the strange man, sizing him up.

Something not right with that fella.

"I'm pretty knackered," Arthur whispers as he tilts closer to Al and George. "And if this chap thinks he's gonna pull something, we'll handle it. At any rate, we'd have a place to lay low. If he oversteps, we'll teach him a lesson."

"Looks like somebody already did." Al retorts before turning on his heel to face the man. "Alright. One night. We'll be outta your hair come morning."

"Great!" the man replies, grinning as he retreats back inside the Roadster. Patrick is watching the man from behind the foggy glass of the backseat window, brows knotting together as the man begins to drive ahead. Arthur, Al and George retreat back into the LaSalle and follow, with the Chevrolet right behind.

Patrick taps Joe on the shoulder. He grunts in response. "What's it now, Caudy?"

"That guy, he don't look right to me. Got a feelin' in my gut," Patrick says, keeping his dark eyes fixed ahead on the Roadster. "He's bad news, I can feel it."

"And if you're right, we'll put a bullet in his melon. No big deal. Guy seems kinda dopey to me anyhow," Joe says breezily as he chucks his cigar out the window. "Not really a threat. Doubt he's ever fired a gun in his life."

Patrick is not convinced. "You saw his face. He looks like a blind man tried to take a whack at him," he glances at Marie. "And I don't like how he was lookin' at her."

Joe chortles softly to himself. Doubt she'd mind it.

At this, point, both he and Cal had secret trysts with her behind Patrick's back. He suspected she'd also been fooling around with Arthur too. An assumption born out of her comment about his "sexy" Irish accent.

Funny, Patrick was suspicious of total strangers, but not the men he'd grown to call friends.

Maybe it's because he'd never had any before. His paranoia was off-putting but also what made him so kill crazy. Handsome to look at, but underneath was a volcano. Always ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.

Not tonight. Joe would see to that.

"Don't go pulling any of that shit. We don't wanna be drawing attention to ourselves here. Not in this hick place. You know these small towns. Everyone knows everyone. Just keep quiet. We don't need a repeat of Toledo."

Patrick had gone ballistic on a gas attendant he'd thought muttered some smart-ass comment under his breath. They'd sped out of there after Patrick splattered the man's brains along the smooth concrete with a single clean bullet to the temple.

Patrick sits back, roughly pulling Marie to him as Joe glances at the street sign; 29 Neibolt.

The Roadster parks in front of a large Victorian house. With the LaSalle and Chevrolet lining up right behind.

"Whoa," Cal mumbles as he peers around his brother to glimpse the place. "Seems this fella might have some serious dough."

"Looks like a dump to me." Joe replies, shutting off the engine and swinging open the door. He was not a man who was easily impressed and he'd robbed much more grander mansions than this in Danville.

"Kinda gammy looking." Arthur mutters to himself as he slides out the LaSalle.

Patrick steps out, followed by Marie, who looks dazzled, her hazel eyes wide and her ruby red lips breaking out in a smile. It was the style of house that had always struck her fancy.

"This place is gorgeous. Just look at that architecture! It's a palace!" she exclaims as she rushes ahead, making her way to the front porch, past sunflowers sprouting from the grassy front yard. Robert reaches down and plucks one, handing it to Marie.

"Sunflowers symbolize healing and good luck." he elucidates as she tucks it behind her ear. Patrick stands glaring as Joe touches his shoulder.

"Don't. It's harmless." he growls.

"Thank you. That's really very sweet, sir." Marie touches the flower.

"Sweets to the sweet, I say." Robert replies.

Patrick shakes Joe's hand off before he stalks towards the porch as everyone begins to pile into the home. As elegant inside as out, with a lovely red Victorian chaise lounge, matching camelback sofa and parlor chairs, each one sitting across from each other in front of the fireplace. The mantel boldly read 'Good Cheer, Good Friends.'

George smiles and playfully swats Robert's arm. "We're good friends now, eh, Bob?"

And friends help each other.

Too bad we don't have the means to clean this place out. The furniture would make a buck or two.

Robert merely smirks. A slow, deliberate smile as he looks at George. "Sure thing there. Why don't you all have a seat. I'll be right back."

"That's what my ex-wife said." Arthur quips as he collapses on a parlor chair, sprawling his legs out. It takes him a moment to notice; there's a fire now crackling inside. He stares at it, puzzlement blinking across his mien.

Huh, when did he do that? It wasn't going when we arrived and he didn't go near it...

No matter. Just enjoy it.

Kitty approaches the mantel, running her long shiny nails along little figurines of clowns, each made of delicate painted porcelain, juggling, balancing and one holding a bundle of red balloons.

"These are beautiful figurines." she says, tucking a tendril of sandy blonde behind her ear, bringing her blue irises closer to examine the fine details.

"Take one. Just throw it in your purse. Might as well." George blurts out. Kitty whirls around.

"We're his guests. He was kind enough to let us in here-"

"Come now, lass. Let's not pretend this bloke is an average citizen. You saw his face." Arthur offers, stretching his arms and folding his hands behind his skull, giving her an amused expression. "Looks to me like he may have been in a wee bit of trouble. He was probably acting the maggot and someone decided enough was enough. Could be a right eejit."

"Yeah," Al cradles his chin in his left fingers, massaging the dark stubble. "There's something...I gotta feeling he wouldn't rat us off. There's no way he wouldn't of recognized me, at least."

He's hiding something himself. Al could always sense them. His fellow ' bad seeds.' The people who ran in the gutters. The lowlifes. He could always pick them out.

The wanted posters were scattered across the midwest, plastered along buildings, hanging in post offices and police stations baring Al's face; wanted for bank robbery kidnapping and murder, with a reward of five-thousand dollars offered. He'd taken up with his old childhood friends the Conklin brothers Joe and Cal, who were small time, with but a few petty theft arrests between them. Patrick had killed a cop in Lafayette during their last raid and prior to that had just a few arrests for assault. He was a friend of Joe and Cal from their early gang days and they'd reconnected with him when Joe briefly did time for robbery, knocking off a small liquor store in Bloomington. He and Patrick had shared a cell.

As for Arthur Malloy, also known as 'Creeping Jesus' because he was nearsighted, he'd fled Ireland after killing a man he claimed insulted his dead sister who'd just passed away from tuberculosis. ("Kicked 'em square in the plums, then put a bullet in his brains, I did.")They'd met when Arthur was attempting to knock off the same liquor store as them and offered his LaSalle that he'd stolen as a getaway.

Patrick's girlfriend Marie Hauser had inadvertently joined the gang, initially trying to persuade him to leave, but soon became an active member. But her role was mostly cooking and washing linens, hence her much-despised nickname, "The washerwoman."

George's wife Kitty Donahue was another matter. She entered the gang enthusiastically and without hesitation, but Al has never so much as seen a gun in her hands. Not one for shooting, she'd say.

Patrick sits on the camelback, with Marie beside him, still happily fingering the sunflower. He glances up as Robert emerges, hat and coat discarded and hair combed back. He points towards the kitchen.

"This way," he says, gliding down the stairs. "Let's eat. Got some stew heating on the stove. Some wine on the table."

Arthur pauses as they all stand, the edges of his brows coming together in rumination.

When did he get that going?

Shaking the thoughts from his mind, he continues on with the others, with Kitty quickly swiping one of the figurines from the mantel and tucking it into her purse. The one with the balloons.

They all settle around the large rectangular mahogany-carved table with Robert dumping a hefty spoonful of a rather unappetizing red slop into each bowl. Patrick suddenly rises.

"Where's your bathroom?" he queries curtly.

Robert points. "Third door on the right."

Patrick darkly glances at Marie, then Robert before exiting. The murmuring of the group's voices fade as he stomps up the stairs, making his displeasure with the situation known. Of course, his real intention was to inspect this place. Make sure no one was hiding anywhere. He makes his way along the house's arteries, looking in various rooms, until he hears a door loudly creak. This makes him halt, glancing over his shoulder

The door to a room across from him is ajar, the lights inside faint, but enough to showcase what's inside.

Clown dolls.

Patrick charily begins to edge towards it, his boots stepping lightly as he sneaks up. He knew that man was strange. Something off about him. This could be an ambush. Nobody is this gracious. Not in his life experience. Everyone is always wanting something from you.

"Ah-ha!" he shouts, throwing open the door all the way and leaping in. He stands a moment, surveying the area with the clown dolls of all shapes and sizes along the wooden floor. Framed along the walls; more clowns of the sad crying variety.

"Jesus..." Patrick strolls over to the windows-also baring clowns-the circus-themed stained glass were partly obscured by thin brown cloths layered thick with dust.

Heh,heh.

Patrick spins around.

Who was that?

He reaches inside his coat and grips his Luger. "Hey, who's there?"

It had sounded like a man's voice inside the room with him, but before he could comprehend where a possible attacker could be hiding in here, he sees that the heads of the creepy dolls are now all turned towards him. Watching.

Whoosh.

The cloths covering the windows plunge to the floor and Patrick flinches as he turns to face the sound.

Hee!

Patrick does another turn around to face the clowns. That one sounded like a child. Specifically a girl coming from somewhere within the clutter of the room.

In that moment, Patrick feels something he hadn't felt in ages, since he was a boy running from his father's belt; fear. A powerful, overwhelming sense that he needed to leave this room now. The instinct to protect himself had kicked in.

He dashes towards the door, coming to a skidding stop before it slams shut. His breathing heavy, his heart hammering against the cavity of his chest.

Back in the kitchen, Patrick storms in, returning to his seat, sweat pearled along his large forehead. Marie touches his trembling hand.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, fine," he breathes, wild pupils directly on Robert. "Got a thing for clowns there, Bob?"

Robert slowly chews, staring back, before loudly swallowing. "Yes, sir. You could say that...I see you found my collection. "

"And it's a lovely one. I saw your figurines." Kitty interjects.

"Pretty fuckin' weird to me. A grown man..." Patrick grumbles. "What you hidin' in here?"

Robert sniffles, nibbling on his food. "Nothing, I assure you, Mr. Caudy-"

"Oh bullshit! What are you hidin'! What's in that room you freak!?" Patrick shouts as he stands, with Marie trying to subdue him and Joe mouthing curse words, when Kitty shrieking at the top of her lungs shatters the tension.

All eyes are drawn to her as she stares gaping at her spoon. "It's a finger!" she screams, holding it out for George to take a look. Upon inspecting it, he chuckles.

"It's a carrot honey." he pushes the vegetable slathered in red sauce around on the spoon.

"I swear, for a moment it looked just like a finger! A child's finger." Kitty pants, her palm clasped to her chest.

Patrick sinks back down to his chair, not taking his eyes off Robert, who chuckles.

"No fingers. Just an old family recipe, you could say."

"And what of your family Mr. Gray? Do you have a wife? Kids?" Marie chirps, trying to calmly rub Patrick's forearm. Robert considers a moment.

"No wife. No kids."

"Had to think about it huh?" Patrick cuts in. Joe gives him a swift kick to the shin under the table. Patrick glowers.

Unfazed, Robert continues, "I live alone. Just myself. Seems I've been alone for an eternity." he chortles that last line, as he sips his wine.

"I'd die from the loneliness." Marie replies.

"Nah, no one really dies in Derry." Robert says, to which an awkward silence falls over the table.

After a few beats of quiet. "So, uh, swinging bachelor huh?" George grins. "I kind of envy you..."

At this, Kitty scowls, gently, playfully swatting his arm. Al then stands, pushing his chair out. "Well, we best be getting to bed. We got an early start tomorrow." he announces.

Robert shows them to their rooms, pulling blankets from the closets for makeshift beds on the floors of the bedrooms to accommodate all of them, with Arthur opting to sleep downstairs on the camelback. Patrick keeps Marie locked in his sights as Robert bids them goodnight, shutting off the lights.

The house falls dark, with no sound, not even the thunder could be heard. Just deathly cold silence. As each member of the Bradley gang dozes off.

Patrick, having fallen asleep with troubled thoughts, realizing the man knew his surname when he'd not offered it, is soon awakened by a pair of hands on him. Small hands, shaking him violently.

"The Hell?" he mutters, wiping the sleepiness from his eyes as he looks up. Nothing there. He sits up, glancing at a slumbering Marie as he is pulled, almost hypnotically, to that odd clown room again. Almost as if waiting for him, the door swings open. Hearing the beckoning of a little girl's voice, not very audible before, but crystal clear now.

"Molly..." he whispers as he sees a miniature coffin now on display between the stained glass windows, the clown dolls forming a pathway as he approaches.. The door quietly shuts behind him as the coffin lid creaks open. He glances down at his hands, seeing he is now smaller, childlike, around twelve. The age he was when Molly drowned.

In her coffin, her eyes are closed, her face sweet. Her skin a pale blue and her brown ringlets held by pink ribbons. Sniffling, Patrick leans in to kiss her cheek. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you." he whimpers through stinging tears. As he hangs his head, Molly's eyes burst open and she draws in a sharp breath.

"Ah!" Patrick stumbles backwards as Molly bolts upwards scowling, mouth sneering in contempt.

"Sorry for what? Hitting me in the head with that rock and accidentally knocking me into the river or running off like a coward? You didn't even try to save me, you fucking wimp."

She steps out of the coffin and leaps to the ground as Patrick watches her features distort, growing more white, her lips redder. She spreads her arms out, grinning maniacally, her angelic voice now raspy and insidious.

"Beautiful fear." she grins as she runs at him, roaring as she displays quill-like teeth, growing taller, her brown locks turning orange, her frilly pink dress becoming a gray-white. The clown dolls hiss with laughter as Patrick is backed against the door, which suddenly opens and Marie is there, screaming as the Molly creature, now a lanky tall clown with a striped face, comes at them. Patrick, now an adult man again, staggers up, terror gripping every inch of his being as he slams the door, yanking Molly away.

In the next room, George, Al and Kitty are awakened by the screams, as Kitty flips on the bedside lamp, standing just before them is the banker, covered in blackened mud and slime, his jaw dangling as he reaches his dislocated right limb out towards them. A deep otherworldly moan emitting from his misshapen mouth.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Kitty screams hysterically as George and Al reach for their guns, finding they are unable to fire.

"What the Hell! My gun is jammed up!" Al yells as they scramble for the door. Thankfully the banker zombie was nowhere near their escape route and they dash out, meeting Marie and Patrick, both holding each other. The lights above them flicker off and on, with a hideous high-pitched giggle echoing through the walls as Joe and Cal burst from their room, both looking pale.

As if they'd seen a ghost.

"That gas station worker Patrick iced? He's in our fucking room! Looking like he crawled straight outta his grave!" Cal yells.

Just then, they hear Arthur shouting. They all make their way downstairs, where Arthur is in the kitchen, his scrawny frame cowering against the wall, yelling as he points at a large boiling pot on the stove.

"I woke up and heard someone in the kitchen then I-I saw..." he stutters as he points a shaky finger at the pot. George steps over and gags at what he sees.

A head. Too disintegrated to tell the gender or age, boiling in blood. The sight and smell of rotting flesh sends George gagging and choking as he falls backwards, covering his mouth.

"Jesus fuck!"

"What is it?" Kitty demands.

"Never mind." George coughs.

Huddled together, they run towards the front door, The lights still flashing, the ugly laugh still reverberating. They all jump into their cars and by the grace of God, the LaSalle starts, engine blaring as they speed away. Some only barely clothed, with Marie wrapped in Patrick's coat that she often slept in to keep warm.

As dawn bleeds through the sky and the gang take refuge in a nearby farmhouse, the extra clothes and guns in the trunks of the cars coming in handy, The women take a calming trip to Freese's with Patrick in tow while the rest of the men went to Machen's Sporting Goods to order some more supplies. Lal, the owner, recognized Al immediately, despite the fake name he'd given; Richard D. Rader, and informed some of his buddies that he was expecting Al Bradley at two in the afternoon the day after tomorrow and just as the LaSalle and Chevrolet came into view on Main Street, the gang of Derry residents, armed to the teeth, opened fire.

As the shoot-out ensues, Biff Marlow, one of the gunmen, spies a scar-faced man in a gray suit with a sunflower tucked in the left breast pocket firing a Remington along with them. In fact, all the gunmen had spotted this complete stranger. They all figured he was an outsider wanting to join the party. Afterwards, as the bodies of the notorious Bradley Gang were on display in the bullet-ridden Chevrolet and LaSalle, Marlow watches as the man strolls away, whistling, one hand cradling the Remington on his shoulder, the other in his pocket.

Marlow could never be certain, and it bothered him for years after. Something he related to his drinking buddies while reminiscing about the killings. He could have sworn that, despite the bright sunlight, the stranger didn't cast any shadow.

No shadow at all.


	6. Robert, Agnes and Emma Gray-1881

At the start of Autumn, in the chilly, foggy early hours of the morning, the circus arrived to sleepy Derry. The colorful painted wooden wagons and elephants parading along Witcham Street drew the children of the town out of their homes to smile, gawk and laugh while still in their pajamas.

The performers clamored about the town, exploring, or posing for photographers as set-up began, including the biggest draw of all; the big top tent being erected by young laborers. Decked out in overalls with smudged cheeks, they traveled with the circus and during performances often did humdrum chores, such as tending to the animals and the handling of props the various performers used during their acts. The laborers, while not paid well, certainly ate well, with three hearty meals a day. The opportunity for travel was also desirable for many young men and women.

The wagons were sitting in a circle around Bailey Park, in the center is one emblazoned with 'Pennywise The Dancing Clown.'

Otherwise known as Robert Gray, formerly Gustafsson. He'd picked up his stage name while performing in London with an English clown George Rowley, known as 'Sad Jacques,' who uttered the saying, "Penny wise and pound foolish" in response to the lavish spending he'd witnessed while in the city. Robert found the saying delightful and adopted it as a stage name. Before, he simply was known as 'The Dancing Clown.'

Robert was born in Södermalm, the only son of Anna and Sven, both from familes of dancers, musicians and actors. His father had been known sinply as "The Sångare," and had moved the family to England upon landing work at King's Theater. His actress mother made regular appearances on the Royal Theatre stage.

The family's home life was often filled with drama that matched that depicted in his mother's plays; his father had at least three different mistresses, each having bore him a child. Robert had never acknowledged or spoke with any of them. His father was also a strict disciplinarian, often beating Robert mercilessly for something as trivial as not finishing all of his vegetables.

His father, who had a taste for the macabre, also spent a fair amount of time consuming magazines and books filled with horrifying tales of people being buried alive. As a result, this caused him to request that his teenage son promise to behead him upon death for fear of premature burial. When the time came, Robert did as asked and upon the death of his mother a few years later, set out on his own, mostly finding work in Italy, Denmark and Sweden.

It was in London where Robert met his charismatic wife Agnes, also known by her stage name Elvira, who was a trapeze artist famed throughout Europe as the "Daughter Of The Air." Her performances often took her up fifty to sixty feet from the ground, without using any net or other safety measures. The audiences adored her and she was often the subject of magazine news articles.

Born in Stockholm, she was of Danish ancestry and had come from a family of trapeze artists, 'The Flying Jensens' and had been performing since she was a toddler, with her father balancing her on his hand during his opening act.

Robert had been taken with her hourglass figure, and long light brown hair which was well past her waist. She'd been drawn to his height and striking eyes, the blue-green color reminding her of the sea. Even finding his slight buck teeth appealing. They had eloped when they were touring with the French circus director Didier Gautier in Cirque Du Nord

Their seven year old daughter Emma was a dark-haired morose child who was born in Austria while the couple were touring with Circus Renz.

When America came calling, they landed on Ellis Island and they promptly changed the family name from Gustafsson to the more easily pronounced Gray and eventually were hired by P.T Barnum upon hearing of the couple's fame throughout Europe.

America, however, wasn't all it was advertised to be, and Agnes and Robert were becoming increasingly weary with life on the road. Overworked and exhausted, at this point their young daughter was their priority and settling down was maybe what was best for her. A stable home. School. And, most of all, friends. The girl was isolated, and apart from a stuffed lion she called 'Fred' given to her by the lion tamer Isaac Van Der Berg, she had no real companions. She often spent long hours sitting in Agnes' wagon printed with 'The Legendary Elvira,' reading or playing marbles while the couple did their shows.

Derry seemed like the perfect place to settle down permanently. They had acquired enough savings to live comfortably.

Upon their exploration of the town, Robert, Agnes and Emma happened upon 29 Neibolt Street and a lovely two-story mansion, somewhat rundown-looking, encircled by patches of half-dead grass and sunflowers that looked like tiny suns sprouting around the yard. Upon talking with the locals they discover that the home is for sale and was owned by one of the wealthiest families in Derry, the Muellers.

In fact, according to the local residents, the place hadn't been lived in for many years. The last known occupants, the Vance family, had moved out around thirty years prior. There were whispers that the place was haunted-rumors both Robert and Agnes immediately dismissed.

But not so much Emma. Standing outside the wrought iron gates, she gawks up at the circular attic window at the very top, goosebumps breaking out along her skin. The window almost resembles the eye of a cyclops, watching her closely. She takes a step backwards.

"No, I don't want to go in here." she mumbles, dropping her head down, holding Fred tight to her plaid dress, prying her fingers from her mother's. The house had a strange atmosphere, like it would come alive and gobble her up if she set one foot inside.

Like some kind of monster from a fairytale.

"It's just a house, my love. Nothing to harm you," Agnes lovingly reassures. "Nothing to be afraid of."

Robert gives his daughter a gentle rub along her shoulders, removing his cigar from his lips to give her a comforting smile. "We're just going to have a look around, okay? Nothing to fear."

She's never lived in a house before. It's all a little foreign to her. She'll adjust.

But there's something about this house. Something drawing Robert to it. It certainly wasn't the most attractive and the work going into it would be time-consuming. But there was a charm about it. It had potential to be their dream home.

Robert leads his family in, with Emma returning her hand to her mother's protective grip. Once inside, they stand gazing about the living room, admiring the woodwork; the staircase and wooden beams, evidence of fine craftsmanship. The furniture was still here, as if the former owners had left in a hurry. The fireplace inlaid with 'Good Cheer, Good Friends,' and a piano sits beneath the window, sunrays coating along its white and black keys, the dust particles floating through the air twinkle in the warm light.

"The price they're asking for this place is a bargain, given how it includes the furniture and everything," Robert says as he approaches the stairwell. "Seems too good to be true."

"The furniture will have to be replaced. Look at it," Agnes runs a white gloved hand along the blanket of dust along the wooden frame of a parlor chair. "It's filthy! We can't possibly use it."

"No, just a little dirty. Just needs some sprucing up a bit. Just a little bit of love." Robert grins like a kid, his round cheeks turning up as he bounds up the stairwell.

Agnes follows, with Emma at her heels, clinging to her, her large brown irises searching along the walls, waiting to see if something emerges, or moves out of anywhere. A pair of massive hands with hairy fingers reaching out for her, like a troll from the Scandinavian folk tales the children back home told around a camp fire. The eerie sensation that this house was somehow alive was rustling within her. Every nook and cranny was just seeping with this discomfort.

Robert opens a door to a bedroom where two of the windows have been shattered.

No matter. Easily replaced.

Agnes enters behind him, leaving Emma out in the hall. As she stands, a whispered voice touches her eardrums.

Emma.

Startled, the girl spins around. That voice was neither male no female. That was not either of her parents calling her name. Although it seems like it was speaking to her through her mind. A cursory glance into the bedroom shows her parents are preoccupied with discussions of renovations.

Emma.

She stares down the hall towards the kitchen as the door opens ajar and just inside there's a miniature ball of light, doing a little dance mid-air. It looked no bigger than one of her marbles. It reminded her of the fairy stories her mother told her. Describing the little sprites as having an otherworldy glow.

It couldn't be though, could it?

Without hesitation she runs to the kitchen as it disappears behind the doorway. She stands watching, holding Fred tighter to her as the little glowing ball skips through the air to the open door of the basement, casting its luster along the darkness. As she steps closer, she feels a pull, a force, beckoning her further in. Like a pair of large invisible hands guiding her along by her shoulders.

She had to go down there.

As she enters, standing atop the steps leading down into the murkiness, she is met with a bone-chilling cold, the clammy decayed odor of the basement air meets her nostrils, causing her to cough. She charily begins to descend the stairwell, in direction of the light ball as it highlights each step, creaking loudly under her tiny feet as she reaches the bottom.

There, just a few feet from her, in a weak beam of sunlight from a nearby window, is an ancient stone well. The little ball of light hovering just above it, circling the opening. The well is partly destroyed, a rusted pulley dangles just above. With Fred still tight in her arms, she stares at it, almost mesmerized. Gradually, she starts to come closer. As she does, something moves just along the broken stones.

A pair of luminescent yellow-orange hands rise from within and cup the tiny light ball, followed by the head of a woman with her hair pinned back, her entire face illumined in that same bright color that resembled an amber gemstone. She rises up out of the well, still holding the tiny bead of light, wings sprouting out from her back. She lands on her feet with a dainty ballet-dancer like movement, wearing the same style of lace-up slippers and dress her mother wore when she performed.

Emma stares, her mouth agape.

A real fairy. An actual real-life fairy.

The fairy gestures for her to draw near. "Come." she says in a delicate feminine voice that sounds like an angel, or the most delicate porcelain bell chiming.

Emma heeds, inching closer, in utter awe of what she was seeing. The fairy sticks her hand out, wiggling her slender fingers. "Come with me, child."

Emma swallows, still feeling the embers of fear smoldering, although much of it had dampened. But a fluttery anxious feeling was still present. "Come where?" she inquires.

"Come and you'll float. I promise. Don't you want to have wings?" the fairy replies, turning her shoulders slightly to display hers. "Come and you will float too."

Emma is about to take her hand, when she sees the fairy's features up close. Her eyes are two empty black sockets. At this, Emma pulls back, an unnerving feeling starting to shiver through her.

"Um, that's okay. I-I think I need to go upstairs now," she says as she starts to back away, gaze not wavering from the strange sight. "I need to leave now."

The beaming visage the fairy was displaying now falters, her tiny mouth curling downwards into an exaggerated pout. "Now Emma, that's not very polite. Come and let me take you into my lights. You won't grow old there. You'll remain the same forever." she says grinning. Although friendly, there's enough hint of malice beneath it to cause Emma's fear to skyrocket, coupling it with a burst of panic.

No, this isn't normal. Fairies aren't real.

Then, out of the corner of her vision, she spots something moving beside the fairy, something black. Possibly a rat or a mouse

A closer inspection shows it is neither, but some sort of...thing.The closest she could describe it as is a shadow, only solid. It danced along the edge until another appeared. And another. And another. Until what looked like a writhing bundle of obsidian tentacles begin to rise up from the well. Followed by veins of orange light creeping up along the grooves of the stones, pulsing and flickering.

"Come Emma. Come into my lights." the fairy intones as ebony webs begins to snake out of her eyes, cocooning around her head and neck, slithering down her thin frame.

The pulley above the well begins to swing as the monstrosity starts to lift out and towards Emma, now taking on the appearance of thick inky tar, the fairy vanishing within. The powerful scent of raw sewage fills the musty air as the orange light brightens the well as if there were a fiery lava pit deep below, painting its smoldering gleam along the stones.

The hairy phantom tentacles start to crawl towards Emma, the fear now escalating, almost making her numb with fright. A scream is wedged in her throat, she works her jaw, trying to utter a sound of alarm, her nails digging into Fred's soft fur.

"Emma!"

Agnes' voice jolts the little girl out of her stupor and she shrieks, whirling around to dash up the stairs, the slimy tentacles nipping at her ankles. As she reaches the top, her mother appears in the doorway. Emma almost knocks her down as she wraps her arms around her waist.

"My goodness, what-" Agnes begins, patting her daughter's trembling back.

"Down there! There's something there!" she stammers, turning and jabbing her finger downwards.

Only there's nothing there. Nothing at all. No sign of the strange yellow-orange light, that menacing fairy, or the black tentacles. The pulley now immobile. The horrid smell of sewage replaced with the mildewy scent of the basement.

As if nothing had even been there at all.

"There was something there..." Emma breathes, tightening her small arms around her mother. Agnes glances in the direction of the well. The whole basement was going to take some serious work, something she may not be up for. But Robert's enthusiasm was contagious.

"There was something coming out...and I thought I saw-"

No I did see. There was a fairy, but you wouldn't believe that.

"It's alright dear. That young man was only joking, I'm sure. Those ghost stories are just make-believe. Not anything real."

They'd spoken to a local youth who had informed them it was "the haunted house" in earshot of Emma, and it clearly had influenced her into 'seeing' something.

"What's the matter?" Robert appears beside Agnes, gazing down at his shaken daughter. "What is it?"

"That." Agnes, still holding Emma to her arms, gestures at the well. Robert smirks.

"That won't be a problem," he says. "We can take care of that."

"Mhm." Agnes arches her brows as she peers down at the unsightly area. It seems like more trouble than it's worth. But if he is convinced they could do it...

"Come on, I want to go see the owners, see if we can get this going." he announces as he gently maneuvers his wife and daughter away from the basement door. He takes one last glimpse as he shuts it.

Inside, just above the opening of the well, three tiny orange lights appear, hovering in a circular motion.

After the trip to the Muellers, and despite the fact that the snooty family looked down on circus performers, the house on Neibolt was now officially the new Gray residence.

Robert, inspired by the architecture of the churches they'd seen throughout Europe, went out and immediately bought a pair of stained glass windows from a local artist, painted with bright scenes of the circus. Once installed, they filled the room with rays of yellow, orange, blue and turquoise.

This was to be Emma's room, but the perceptive child was still frightened. Frightened and perplexed. Why did nobody live here? Why did the Mueller family not reside here? What of the family that did live here before? Cleaned up, it made for a lovely home. So, why was it just sitting here unattended to? Her young mind could not make sense of the questions her parents seemed unconcerned with.

No doubt, it was connected to whatever that was in the basement.

Snuggling Fred, she stares at the newly-installed windows, the design almost resembling a pair of wicked eyes grinning at her. The image of that fairy comes on. She shudders as the sound of the fairy's voice still plays in her mind.

Come into my lights.

In their new bedroom, Agnes was laying out her mother's large old quilt along the bed, featuring a scene of men herding cattle, women fetching water from a stark blue river and boys building haystacks. At the foot of the bed sat a large cedar chest, inset with the initials R.G, where Robert kept his clown costume, made of fine off-white silk from Lyon, and his make-up supplies.

As he and Agnes prepare to perform, Robert, or rather Pennywise, stands looking at the full-length mirror. Adjusting the thick ruffle around his neck, he grins, his trademark red stripes thick along his cheeks, his lazy left eye slightly askew. As he stares, something rather curious happens. The kerosene lamp just behind him on the nightstand flickers, the tiny flame within breaking apart into three smaller flames, forming circles.

Seeing this odd movement in the reflection, Robert turns to look as the flame returns to normal. He approaches, taking the lamp in his large gloved hands, staring intently at the light as a small, barely-audible voice arises from its warmth.

Robert.

Dazed, he watches as the flame begins to break apart again, separating into the three tiny balls of orange-yellow as they begin to rotate. Robert's corneas begin to mirror their glow, the voice still speaking to him, whispering, before-

"Robert?"

Agnes is now beside him, her thin fingers caressing the puffy material of his shoulder.

"You okay?" she whispers, bringing her pink lips to his and planting a quick kiss.

"Fine," he replies as he places the kerosene lamp back down. "I'm fine."

Over the next few days, they perform a show in the afternoon and again at night, with Agnes doing her signature one-arm plange act, enthralling the audience who marveled at her grace and elegance. When the time came for Robert to do his dancing clown act, the children all squealed with delight as he did his gags, slapstick comedy and dance moves where he engaged the children in the front rows. Adopting a slight lisp as part of his performance, he coaxed one little girl from the front to stand before him as he presented her with a large silver dollar from behind her ear. The girl looks positively enchanted.

The show concludes with the two African elephants, Sylvia and Thump performing and the lions Ivan and Maurice, jumping through hoops of fire.

Afterwards, the children all gathered around Pennywise to ask for an autograph or a special trick just for them, usually with him presenting them with candy or a small toy. One girl in particular, a redheaded child with a round freckled face hangs behind the other children, waiting for them to clear away, before she approaches the clown.

"Those kids do love you. They just flock right to you, don't they mister?" she says, smiling, displaying a minor gap between her two front teeth. Robert gazes down and chuckles.

"Kids love clowns. They bring happiness and joy. As P.T says; 'clowns and elephants are the pegs on which the circus is hung.' Did you like the elephants?"

"Oh, I did, but the you were the best part. The children all loved you." the little girl replies, fingering one of her braids.

"Well thank you. Now if you excuse me, I got to get going. My little girl is waiting." Robert gives a little wave as he walks towards his wagon where Agnes is waiting with Emma, smiling back at the girl, who returns the wave enthusiastically.

Agnes wraps her arms around his neck as he reaches her. "You were fantastic as always...um... who were you talking to just now?" she queries as Emma steps out the door of the wagon, looking relieved to see her father.

Of course this meant they'd be going back to that house.

To Neibolt.

"That little redheaded girl, she really loved my performance. She just thought the elephants were okay," he grins proudly as he pulls Agnes in for an affectionate hug. "You know, I'm gonna miss this. The crowds."

Agnes simply smiles weakly as she peers over his shoulder, her brows knotting together as she studies the area where she'd seen him engaged in a conversation outside the tent exit all by himself with nobody there but a wooden barrel.

Over the next few days, Robert starts to undergo a drastic personality change. His normally cheery upbeat demeanor became more somber, his words curt. He was short with both Agnes and Emma. His eyes underlined by dark half crescents. While he performed, he still saw that little redheaded girl in the bleachers, smiling and cheering. But it was on the second to last night that the circus would be in town that he saw something that made his blood run like ice rivers through his veins, his heart palpitate.

Tucked away in the back of the bleachers, standing with the girl,was Sven. Looking as he did the last Robert saw him. The shock sends Robert tumbling from a large ball on which he was balancing. The crowd responds with a chorus of gasps as Robert stands and shouts a phrase in Swedish that was incomprehensible to the spectator's ears.

Later that night, Agnes is woken up by the sound of the piano, the same sharp note over and over again. Groggily running her hand along Robert's side of the bed, feeling nothing but the cold sheets. Heading downstairs, she sees him sitting at the piano, hunched over, his right index stabbing at one single key repeatedly. He flinches as her fingers come up to brush along his back.

"Another nightmare?" she quietly asks, moving to sit alongside him on the small bench, tucking her blue silk nightgown around her knees.

"I keep thinking of him. Since we've been here. He's been on my mind. I don't know why." he replies, still poking at the key. Agnes reaches and grabs his hand in hers. He keeps his face down, obscured from the light of the kerosene lamp that sits atop the piano.

"Your father's gone. He's not here-"

"But he is. I saw him. Saw him in the bleachers tonight."

"What? How could-"

"He was here, Aggy, I saw him. And when I woke up just now. He was standing in the corner of the room staring at me," Robert pauses, before continuing under his breath. "I know it was him. He didn't have a head."

A much more ghastly image of Sven had appeared in the far corner of the bedroom, gripping his head by the scalp, blood dripping from the bloody stump of his neck, grinning maniacally.

Agnes rests her forehead upon Robert's shoulder, wrapping her arm around to massage his shoulder blades. She'd grown accustomed to his past occasionally showing its ugly head, as disturbing as it was, but this was merely a phase.

He then violently shakes her arm off.

"Get your ass back to bed. Stop bothering me." he sneers.

She pauses and stumbles up, her visage mixed with both surprise and hurt, even though this attitude has been present since they'd arrived.

"Robert, please just let me-"

"Just leave me alone!" he shouts as he smashes his fists against the piano keys. Agnes continues to back away as Emma, woken by her parents voices, appears at the bottom of the stairs with Fred in her arms, nuzzling him against her cheek.

"Mommy?" she says as Agnes rushes to her, guiding her back up the stairs.

"Come on, get back to bed." Agnes orders as Emma glances over her shoulder at her father, who has resumed his one-note playing as the flame of the lamp takes on the form of three rotating spheres.

Near him, a thick black mass hovers along the wall.

The last night of the circus was their largest crowd yet, with it nearly doubled from the last few days, most likely people from out of town or drifters who'd received the free tickets they'd given out. Both the crew and the performers were relieved, as things had not been right the moment they'd come to this town. Technical difficulties, the people getting into arguments in the bleachers. The animals, especially the lions, seemed agitated, pacing back and forth in their cages. Isaac was doing everything her could to keep the beasts calm and collected. Not an easy task with the roaring sounds of a raucous crowd.

Agnes stood on her platform, nearing the roof of the tent, the last night she would do so. Then the house on Neibolt would be their permanent home. The circus life left behind. Certainly a positive thing given the bad turn Robert was taking. She gazes down at Robert as Pennywise. He put on his clown face and performed his act with the gags and humor, but privately, he was different. Some shadow had overtaken him. Something she knew wasn't quite right.

Something to do with this town. That she felt. The people, the atmosphere. It was...unsettling. For reasons she couldn't comprehend. Perhaps settling down here wasn't the right decision.

Inhaling a deep breath, Agnes swings down from the platform, about to perform her final act when a loud 'snap' echos throughout the tent as the swivel that was holding the rope shatters. The audience gasps and screams in alarm as Agnes plummets to the ground.

Robert runs to her lifeless body laying in the center of the ring, cradling her in his arms, touching her cheek, feeling her heartbeat slowing.

"No, no...why?" he whimpers, before he turns his head up at the ceiling. "Why did you do this?!" he cries as the Ringmaster Norman Claude and the laborers watching from the sidelines dash over to aid.

Just outside, Ivan and Maurice are pacing impatiently in their metal cages. An invisible force opens the latch of each, the two lions pouncing out as Isaac shouts, taken by surprise by their sudden escape. The two large cats attack him, tearing out his throat before turning their sights to the circus entrance, the chaotic sounds of the people drawing them in.

Nearby, a kerosene lamp atop a crate that a few laborers had been using tips over, the flame crawling towards the flap of the entrance.

Inside, the lions attack. Anyone and anything in their path. Tearing at clothing and flesh alike, the people screaming in confusion only fuels their bloodthirsty rampage. Outside in Agnes' wagon, Emma sits, hugging Fred to her as she sees through the small window the tent becoming engulfed in flames. The frantic spectators all knock each other down as they try to excape both the blaze and the lions.

Inside, Robert remains holding Agnes in his arms as the top of the tent starts to collapse as the fire engulfs it.

Emma stays sitting in the wagon, weeping as she hears the ensuing chaos, too frightened to move. Just as she decides to move to open the door, it bursts open, with her father standing before her.

Oddly calm.

"Daddy!" Emma runs into his arms, noting for one brief moment how cold his torso felt as she snakes her arms around him.

"Where's mommy?" Emma queries, tears cutting down her pink cheeks as she gazes up at her stone-faced father as he leads her away from the inferno, the lions now outside the burning tent, still attacking those that managed to escape from inside.

"Daddy, we can't leave mommy."

Robert halts, turning his head slowly to look down at his daughter. Emma stares back, eyes damp and red. There is a strange emptiness within his irises. She feels a chill travel along her spine as her heart drops to her stomach as they continue to stare at each other.

"Where's my daddy?" she asks in such a low intone that the words are barely even a whisper. She works her hand loose from his, still maintaining eye contact.

Robert only smiles calmly, derisively, his pupils taking on an orange glow that matches the fire burning against the night sky. His mouth then opens, revealing three tiny balls of orange light.

"Come into my lights, Emma."

Emma's eyes cloud over as her stuffed lion drops from her fingers.

It's only a few weeks later that the horror of the fire is forgotten. The death toll is said to be in the hundreds, however, the exact number is unknown.

Decades later, while reading about the great circus fire of 1881, Mike Hanlon comes across a black and white photo of a tall clown, standing before a wagon, painted along its sides is 'Pennywise The Dancing Clown.'

Beside him is a little brunette girl, holding a stuffed lion, a bright smile across her face.


	7. Stanley Uris-1988

Stanley Uris was not one to procrastinate. Upon arriving home and placing his backpack neatly upon his desk chair, he snatched up his small black binoculars, sitting in the place they always were, right between a small lamp and a wooden pencil box etched with various species of birds. He was wearing his brown winter coat with the tan ducks printed on it that his mother had given him along with a navy blue scarf and mittens. The temperature was below freezing and Derry was a wintry wonderland, blanketed in snow and ice crystals hanging from the roof of the homes. Andrea Uris had begun a routine of breaking the icicles above their porch with a hammer, so as to lessen the danger of them falling and causing serious harm to any member of the Uris family. Their neighbors should do the same, she'd told her son.

"But they won't," she'd said with a disapproving shake of her head. "No common sense, those folks."

The holidays were around the corner, but the looming threat that had quietly been terrorizing the town-the horrific child murders-was putting a damper on any merriment, even with Christmas vacation approaching. Bill, whose little brother Georgie had vanished, Richie and Eddie had simply gone their separate ways after school let out. Eddie's mother had insisted he stay indoors due to the weather and Bill's morose attitude didn't make for much fun in terms of any activities they could do.

Stan was still rattled from his passing encounter with the Bower's Gang, who'd suddenly taken to calling him "Stanley Urine." The ducks splashed across the knitted fabric of his jacket made for a good source of ridicule as well. He'd rushed past them and jumped on his bike as they pointed and laughed and made a sharp beeline home. Their cackling shrinking in the distance as he neared his destination.

He stuffed his bird book in his backpack after removing his school books. He coasted through town on his bike towards the Barrens. Parking it under the Kissing Bridge, he took his bird book in hand, binoculars strung around his neck. As his boots sloshed through the crystalized blades of grass along the frozen waters of the Kenduskeag, he thought of the Black-capped Chickadee. It was widely considered an unremarkable bird to many, but it was one of his favorites due to its super-power-like abilities; it could grow its hippocampus in order to increase memory, control its body temperatures, preserving their energy by going into regulated hypothermia overnight. They were to Stan, admirable creatures capable of surviving the worst conditions.

The curfew was in place, so he would only stay an hour. Just an hour before the sunlight begins to drain from the sky and the temperatures plummet even further. Ample time to just sit and view his favorite bird. He wanted to at least enjoy this serene moment of observing. It was calming.

Crouching down in the grass, the spot in which he knew the bird was abundant, he places his book beside him and brought his binoculars to his eye sockets as he immediately spots it balancing on a twig protruding from from a nearby bush. Just as he's focusing in on it, his eardrum pricks at a sound. Subtle. Had it not been so quiet, he may not have heard it at all.

It sounded like crunching, mixed with squishing noises. Like an animal gnawing on a fresh kill.

A black bear maybe. Not a wolf, as there are none in Maine. A coyote is another possibility.

Charily, Stan rises up, casting his gaze along the Barrens, shading his eyes with his left palm from the bit of sunlight shredding through the overcast. He stands for a moment, blinking, staring, before he heads in the direction of the peculiar sound, his chest fluttering with anxiety. Something was drawing him near, even though normally his instinct would be to run. But the need to see whatever it is making these sounds was forcing him to go against it.

Certainly not like him. A bit jarring.

His breath was visible in the chilled air, billowing out from his lips as he edges closer to a small boulder along the side of a thick tree.

The noise was just below, in a short drop off within a cluster of small boulders.

He places his hands along the cold surface of one of the boulders, his breathing increasing, those clouds of chilled white still bursting from his mouth. He peers over.

At first he sees only a splotch of dark red stark against the sparse snow. It takes a few seconds before he sees something moving in the center of it.

A coyote. A massive one. Blinding white fur that acted as a camoflauge against the snow. Its shoulders shaking as it gnaws ferociously on a limb. From his perspective, Stan could tell it was an arm from what appeared to be a small child. It must have discovered another murder victim left in the Barrens before the police did.

Stan clamps his palm to his mouth as he gags, the scent of the fresh blood being carried up to him along the minor breeze. This causes the beast to look up, snout smeared with crimson which trailed up in thin ribbons through striking golden eyes. Stan stays deathly still, heartbeat thumping in his throat, mouth drying, gazing down as he and the beast make eye contact.

Observant child that he is, Stan took a few seconds to note that this coyote was abnormally large, almost wolf-like in its appearance with a short snout and rounded ears.

But there are no wolves in Maine. He was certain of that. This one must have taken a wrong turn.

Just as Stan finds the courage to begin to move backwards, a deep throaty growl emits from the beast, the sheen of the blood stains along its teeth now visible as its steel visage transforms into a more predatory one.

With this clear show of aggression, Stan takes off. Rushing in the direction where he'd left his bird book.

Wolves weren't supposed to attack people. At least, that's what he'd heard. What he'd read.

But this one certainly looks ready to.

He could hear the beast's massive paws climbing up along the rocks, making its way towards him, oddly silent. Grabbing up his beloved bird book-there was no way he could leave it-he suddenly halts, gazing back over this shoulder.

What are you doing? Keep going. Don't stop.

But he stays put, the strange wolf nowhere to be found. He was sure it had started after him. He'd heard its bulking frame breaking through twigs and branches as it was climbing up towards the top of the boulder.

And was it even a wolf?

There are no wolf packs in Maine. That was a fact. This one should not even be here.

But here it was. Right as he arrived.

What was the possibility of that? The lone wolf in Maine showing up here, just as he arrived to just quietly look at his favorite bird?

Sniffling, he heads towards the dirt path that leads from the Barrens, the Kissing Bridge coming into his view, his bike sitting in wait, as he rounds a clump of low-hanging branches, he sees it; the white wolf, standing about fifteen feet away. The sneaky thing had decided to circle him covertly.

And was standing right in front of his bike.

A clear sign of extreme intelligence. Also very jarring.

"Okay buddy, easy now." Stan pants as his breath catches as he holds up his bird book defensively, peering over the cover as they engage in a staring contest. It's here that he sees how enormous the beast is; the size of a cow at least. The unusual pattern of blood coursing along its face was still bright and visible.

Maybe it doesn't want to hurt me. Maybe.

Just as quickly as he ended that optimistic thought, the wolf comes at him, snarling lips curling back, its incisors looking strangely more pointed-more like yellowed quills. Stan lets out a barely-there yelp as he sprinted back along the path, trying not to slip along the sleek ice, sharp rocks and broken branches. His heart is thundering against his chest, and even in this icy weather, sweat was starting to bead along his forehead as he tightens his grip on his book. The soles of his feet were heavy, his knees weakening, growing tired.

He keeps running along the embankment, nearly tripping several times until he reaches an overturned tree, stopping, despite himself, near a web of underbrush. The only sound in the quiet was his labored panting, the coldness of the winter air filling his lungs.

Hand to his chest, he peers around.

The white wolf is gone again.

It was toying with him for certain. But not that he sensed was in any way playful. No, this was like a lion stalking an antelope, just before the big kill. Just like in the nature shows he watched. There was something else going on here. The behavior of this animal was not like a wolf. They weren't supposed to attack people. They were not supposed to even be in Maine.

That coupled with the unexpectedness of this encounter, this interruption of what was supposed to be his quiet solitude, his escape from the consuming stress of school, home and the likes of the Bower's Gang, was enough to cause him to collapse to the ground, near a large rotting hollow log, partly hidden beneath the snow. He leaned his hand on it, his book slipping from his trembling fingers.

As his breathing slows, he gazes over to the bridge, his bike seeming both close and far away all at once.

Then, a crackle of twigs. Soft, but audible.

Stan tenses, sucking in a sharp breath. He gingerly turns his head, brown eyes cast over his shoulder, seeing a clump of white within a a pair of oaks, moving furtively along the tree trunks.

Moving quickly, Stan makes a play for the end of the hollowed out log, stuffing his book in first, before managing to squeeze the rest of his small frame inside, made thicker by his warm clothing, the printed ducks along his coat smearing with a combination of snow and damp dirt.

Dirty. He was dirty. Relegated to crawling inside a filthy log, his new coat stained, pants soiled with the wet of the snow. His mother would be irate. And for the first time, since this encounter began, he felt irritation. Irritation tinged with the fear still present.

This was offensive. How dare this beast that's not supposed to be even be here force him into this situation.

The fear was nothing compared to the offensiveness.

He swiftly reaches his hand out the other end of the log, unearthing a large pointy stick embedded in the snow. He waits as he hears the offensive wolf creature circle the log, listening as it loudly sniffs the air. It appears at the end where Stan's feet are only inches from the splintered entrance.

Without warning, it begins trying to shove its snout in, making attempts to nip at Stan's shoes.

"Hey! Stop it!" Stan shouts, barely able to even move in the cramped space, unable to turn his head to see what the creature's next move will be. "Stop it!"

The log jerks violently as the wolf tries to shove its enormous head inside.

"No!" Stan bellows. "Don't! Stop!"

The jerking movements abruptly cease as the wolf finds its fruitless to enter. Growling quietly, it slinks to the other end, where Stan can see it more clearly.

They are now vis-à-vis, and Stan feels a stark chill pulsate along his spine as he looks into the wolf's irises.

They were almost glowing. Like two luminous golden moons against the snowy backdrop. The dark red stripes along its mouth he could now see more clearly; not blood, but deep red fur. Its teeth resembled that of a shark than a common wolf. Almost hypnotized, Stan's wide eyes keep fixed on the beast's strange characteristics, his tiny hands still grasping the pointed stick.

And then it lunges, the golden lights of its pupils blurring as its shark-teeth come for him, trying to once again squeeze inside. In that second, Stan's trance is broken, and he thrusts the stick forward, powerfully, with as much force as he could muster with the little energy he had left.

The pointed end meets the wolf. It yelps, shrinking back. The beast continues its pained whimpering as it violently shakes its head, and that's when Stan realizes the stick is no longer in his hand, but lodged in the roof of the wolf's mouth. Blood peppers along the snow as it paws at its teeth, spinning, attempting to remove it.

After a few moments of this tortured dance, it gives Stan one final glare coupled with a roar as it sprints along the shadowy oaks, vanishing along the thick brush. A quiet then falls over Stan, he rests his head along the bottom of the dirty log, not daring to move. His raspy breaths become serene and relieved, his body now frozen, as he slips into a brief slumber, one filled with images of roses with glowing centers that almost resemble the wolf's mesmerizing eyes, a night sky sparkling with stars in the pattern of a large buffalo. A cool breeze touching the delicate petals of the roses as they begin an angelic crooning. And for a split second, he glimpses a tower black against the sky.

And with that, he suddenly awakens. His body doing the jerking motion one does when you are between sleep and awake. Hypnagogic jerk it was called. Just outside a small crack in the wood of the log, he sees movement. But this is something much tinier and less threatening.

Squeezing out the log, he sees a Black-capped Chickadee, hopping along the wood. He regards it a moment with a small weak smile, before he quickly makes his way to the bridge where his bike is parked and swiftly heads home. The sunlight now almost completely diminished, save for a soft orange tinting the clouds beyond the distant mountains.

That night, he's berated and grounded by his parents for soiling his new clothes and for staying out past curfew.

"You could have been killed," Andrea had said, nostrils flared, evidence she was especially incensed. "Do you know how much distress you caused?" His father merely stood by, a somber disappointment resting upon his features.

Stan's thoughts are drowning out her harangue, her voice becoming muffled, like his ears were submerged in water. His encounter with the large wolf with the red striped fur and radiant eyes still lingering. But had it been real? Or was it simply a dream? He had, after all, briefly dozed off in that disgusting log, so maybe it had been. The other things he'd seen in his dream; the roses, the stars, the tower. Yes, the wolf had to be a part of that.

By the following morning, he's convinced himself that it was maybe just some sleep-related hallucination. He'd read about that. That massive hulking beast could not have been. It simply couldn't have been real.

After all, there are no wolves in Maine.


	8. Christie, Liam and Josh-1988

“C'mon, get these,” Liam orders as he tosses a bundle of white taper candles and holders at Josh, who fumbles as he catches them. “These will have to do. I ain’t driving down to Bangor now. And these are the only ones they got.”

They were in the candles and fragrance section of Rite-Aid. Standing beside them is Josh’s younger sister Christie, decked out in a dark green crop top, denim jacket and skirt, chewing loudly on Skittles candies she boldly ripped open in front of a store employee sweeping the floor. The gangly young man had simply shrugged and kept moving along the aisle, pushing the wrinkled scraps of wrappers and dirt crumbs along the stained and scratched cream tiles.

It was Halloween night, and everyone else was out trick or treating or partying, so the store was almost empty.

“Shouldn’t we use black candles? That’s what they usually use, right?” Christie pipes up, tucking a tendril of wavy blonde behind her ear.

“They don’t have them here, and I don’t think we need them.” Josh replies as a spiked-haired young man with a septum piercing and cartoonish-looking tattoos emerges from the snacks aisle with three bags of pretzels piled high in his arms.

“Someone’s gettin’ high tonight.” Liam mutters, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his leather jacket as they watch the young man pay the cashier and exit.

“Hey where’s Lucas?” Josh queries. “Thought he was coming?”

“Stuck at his girlfriend’s. She goes to church and all that and thinks we’re all a bunch of heathens.” Liam grins, his neck-length greasy hair tumbling over his dark sunken eyes as he continues to scan the shelf, before blowing a sigh throw his nostrils.

“Hope he don’t make that uptight bitch my sister-in-law. Would hate to see her every fucking holiday,” he pauses. “Yeah, we’re done here.” he announces as he gives a quick flick of his hand, scarred with cigarette burns, motioning for Josh and Christie to follow him.

As a song by New Kids On The Block starts blaring over the store speakers, Liam sends a taunting grin at Christie as he begins a comical flailing of his limbs in the aisle, weaving his lanky frame, trying to mimic the dance moves of the boy banders.

“Hey, I’m Joey McIntyre. Ain’t you into them Christie?” he says as he starts to snap his fingers as he does a shuffle up to her. With a disgusted visage, Christie sticks her palm out, blocking him from coming closer.

“God no,” she says, her face looking as if she’d just taken a whiff of the worst-smelling garbage imaginable. “Fucking Greta Keene listens to that shit. Not me.”

Greta had taken to hanging out front of Derry Middle School, waiting for Christie, and along with Sally Mueller, started chucking rolled up paper balls, juice boxes and empty soda cans at her as she passed by. She’d been a target since she’d walked in on them tormenting a girl named Beverly Marsh and promptly cussed them out. They then began targeting her. It had become a ritual at this point.

Liam halts his dancing, his mien dropping to a more serious one. “C'mon man.” he says, sniffling loudly, running his left index along the thin black mustache that aged him at least ten years. He didn’t look like a young man of eighteen, but rather a thirty year old you might see working Derry’s seedy bar scene. Compared to Josh’s more boyish, youthful appearance with his short dirty blonde hair, stonewashed jeans and Derry High School jacket, they made an odd match in terms of friends.

The young cashier looks nervous as the three approach, with Liam digging into the back pocket of his trousers, presenting some wrinkled up dollar bills and loose change.

“Hey, got money tonight man,” Liam gives a leering grin to the cashier, whose cheeks are now flushed a light pink. He nods rapidly as he quickly takes the money from Liam, snatching it from his palm as if worried he might contract a disease by touch.

“See ya’,” Liam continues his lurid grinning as he makes a finger gun with his hand, pointing it at the timid cashier, clicking his tongue. “Later dude.”

After all three pile into Liam’s red Pontiac Firebird, Josh tosses the plastic bag of candles into the backseat beside Christie. As they cruise along Kansas Street. Josh snaps on the radio, with Liam loudly belting out the lyrics as Josh cranks up the volume.

“You’re motoring, what’s your price for flight, in finding mister right, you’ll be alright tonight!” he sings in an deep, exaggerated intonation, sending glances back at Christie over his shoulder. She loudly groans as she slinks down against the backseat.

“ _Why_ do you always have to be _such_ a dick?” she sighs as she gazes out at the street lights blurring past. She huffs, folding her arms as he continues his taunting crooning, turning in his seat to face her, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.

“Babe, you know, you’re growing up so fast, and mama’s worrying-”

“No she ain’t.” Christie sternly cuts in, pushing the plastic bag aside as she shuffles in her seat, kicking the empty beer cans along the tacky floor with the toe of her sneakers. The odor inside the car nauseating her with what she suspected was a combination of weed and vomit.

They pass by a bar with patrons loitering outside. She points.

“Ma is probably in there.”

Their mother Melanie certainly wasn’t worrying about anything or anyone other than her next lay.

“I hate that fucking song.” she adds.

Liam abruptly stops his warbling as they come to a stop in front of their destination; 29 Neibolt Street.

“Ah, fuck yeah!” Liam hits the breaks and leaps out, making his way to the trunk. Throwing it open, he removes a large heavy item, wrapped in a grimey brown cloth, along with a couple of flashlights. Slamming the hood, he approaches Josh and Christie.

“Here it is. It’s big enough. We’re gonna do this, man. And it’s gonna be fuckin’ cool!” he exclaims excitedly as he pounces towards the front door of the run-down mansion, long rumored to be a haven for every tweaker in town.

As well as ghosts and the occasional Satanist-a crowd that Liam ran with. It was his idea to come to the most infamous house in Derry to perform a seance. They’d let Christie tag along for the ride.

As Josh duly follows. Christie pauses, holding the plastic bag of candles, staring up at the circular attic window. She remains there, her hazel disks focused on the tenebrous just within the foggy and cracked glass.

She gazes over at the police tape draped along the wrought iron fence that had been torn, a sign that others had trespassed along the property.

“What a shithole.” she mumbles beneath her breath.

A pair of large hands violently shove her forward. She nearly falls over, catching herself against the wooden beam of the porch, feeling a pinch against her thumb as a splinter pricks her skin.

“Ow, shit.” she gasps as she whirls around, certain that asshole Liam or Josh were pranking her.

But no one.

She quickly runs inside, trying to work the splinter from her flesh, a tear of red blood forms, pushing it out.

“Someone just pushed me,” she says as she shuts the rickety old door behind her, trading her gaze between her brother and his friend, trying to decide who was the culprit. She drops the plastic bag to her feet as she snatches up a flashlight, shining it on her finger.

“Maybe it was the ghost!” Liam cackles, his jeering grin a hint that maybe it had been him. Christie glowers at him.

“It’s not funny. Someone came up behind me-”

“You just tripped,” Josh interjects dismissively. “We were both in here. Liam was with me.”

“Yeah,” Liam agrees as he switches on his flashlight, aiming it at his face. “I told, you it was the ghost. This place is haunted like a motherfucker. You know by that piano teacher.”

“Edna Cotton?” Josh inquires.

“Yep, lived here around 1906,” Liam continues, “She was banging Joseph Mueller. He wouldn’t leave his wife. So, one day, she invited his wife here for tea- and the wife had no clue about the affair- and then she crept up behind her with an axe and pow!” he swings his arms as if holding an invisible weapon. “Blade went into the back of wifey’s skull. They found Edna wondering the streets afterwards, covered in blood. They hanged her a week later. They had to do it quick, since they were afraid the Mueller wife’s family and friends would get to her first. ”

“Wow.” Christie says, her arms scissored around her, feeling a stark chill suddenly pulse through her, goosebumps prickling along her skin. The mention of the Mueller name made her think of Sally.

She glances to the front door.

No, no ghost. Just Liam being a douchebag and tying to scare her. Maybe she did trip. Pushing it out of her mind, she moves to stand by Josh.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Liam positions himself before the cloaked item, yanking away the material to reveal a large oval-shaped mirror. He traces a callused fingertip along its golden frame. “Mirrors are portals. Gateways.”

Josh snatches up the bag of candles and pulls out his lighter, igniting each and lining them up around the mirror. Christie lowers herself to sit on the icy floor.

“Think this will work huh?” Josh queries as he stares at his reflection. Liam nods, keeping his eyes glued to his own.

“Legend has it The Brotherhood of Nineteen used to hold seances here,” Liam says. “They also used to do mirror gazing, trying to contact the dead. I read one of them went crazy after he stared at a mirror too long and his reflection morphed into something inhuman, a demonic pigman or something. Now close your eyes.”

Liam starts to recite an incantation under his breath, but neither Josh nor Christie can decipher what he’s saying. The room is quiet, dark, save for the soft light of the candles.

Christie decides to peek, opening her lids and watching, eyes widening as she sees a pitch black fog that resembles liquid start to spread along the mirror, drowning out their reflections. She inhales sharply at the unexpected sight.

The black fog quickly vanishes as she does so. Liam growls, “Hey what the fuck?”

“I saw something. In the mirror-”

“It was working? Dammit! Don’t fuckin’ talk! Shit!” Liam hisses as he gives her a murderous glare. Josh places a hand on Christie’s shoulder.

“It’s okay. Just keep them closed.” he offers gently as Liam keeps his intense brown irises on her.

“Again.” he states coldly as he turns back to face the mirror, and, once again, recites that indiscernible invocation. Christie keeps her lids squeezed shut. For a moment she heeds Liam’s order. But something was telling her to open them again. A tension begins to envelope her tiny frame, her chest tightening, heart thumping against the tightness forming in her throat.

And she looks.

What she sees is not an inky fog cloud this time, but…a clown. Clear as day. His round face outlined by the golden of the candlelight. His pupils two flaming smooth yellow rings. His grin is trimmed in dark red stripes that cut across his white cheeks. The most startling thing of all are his teeth; sharp and pointy, like a demon out of the horror movies.

“Oh my God!” Christie shrieks as she scrambles away on her hands and knees, coming to a stop near the staircase.

“Fucking Hell!” Liam roars as he bolts up. “You can’t take her anywhere! Fuck!”

“What is it?” Josh crawls over to his terrified sister, her gaze on the mirror, bottom lip trembling as she leans her weight against her palms. The weird clown face has vanished from the glass.

“There was something in the mirror. A face in the mirror. Like…a clown’s face.” Christie breathes, her voice dripping with panic, her chest heaving rapidly. Liam gives a disgusted scoff, his hands on his hips as he hangs his head, shaking it.

“Can’t bring her anywhere,” he grumbles. “A fucking clown? What the fuck even?”

Wham! Wham! Wham!

A pounding starts from beneath the floor. Continuous, growing louder. More ominous. Even Liam looks startled at this. Josh eyes the floorboards, eyebrows knotted as he wraps an arm around Christie.

“Sounds like it’s coming from the basement.” he offers.

“Gee, ya’ think so huh?” Liam states sarcastically as he stares downwards for a fleeting moment before he grabs up a flashlight and storms towards the kitchen in the direction of the basement door. “Probably some fuckin’ crackhead. If it is, they’re going to get their ass beat. I’m not in the mood for this shit.”

Josh follows, with Christie close behind, her finger clasping the hem of Josh’s black and orange high school jacket. Liam and Josh both charge down the basement steps, flashlight beams searching along the dusty warped steps. They both pause halfway down to glance at the darkness, a runnel of moonlight is cutting through the cracked and stained basement window.

“Who the fuck is here man?” Liam shouts as he keeps the light pointedly on the well, holding his forearm against the lower half of his face to shield against the odor of rotting wood. There is no answer, only the aged pulley that dangles over the well entrance begins to squeak as it swings, ever so slightly.

“What is-” Josh begins before he’s cut off by the basement door slamming. He and and Liam bolt back up the steps.

“Hey Christie, the fuck you doing? Open it,” Josh pounds on the door. “Hey! Open!”

Then, in between flesh striking the wood, they hear it. A loud bubbling growl emitting from the dark of the basement corner. Josh halts his pounding as he and Liam both turn their attention on the well.

Rising up from beneath is a creature, humanoid in appearance, save for its face. Its features were only somewhat visible in the dim light of the room. The blue-white moonlight gleamed along the tusks protruding out from its snarled and twisted mouth. It gave another growl, a snarl mixed with a squeal.

Like a pig. Its eyes were like two burning balls above its snout, devoid of any pupils, pointedly on both of them. The odd ruby stripes down its cheeks distort as it continues to snarl.

“Shit, the fuck is that?” Josh manages, grabbing Liam’s elbow. The young man remains frozen, seemingly hypnotized by the creature’s blazing corneas. Josh violently shoves him aside to resume frantically banging on the door.

“Christie! Open it! There’s something fuckin’ in here man! Open it!” he shouts, not removing his sight from the pig-like monster. “Fuckin’ open you little bitch!”

Suddenly, the beast is behind them, moving with lightning speed at the bottom of the steps. Liam screams as it yanks him down by the ankles, he flails backwards, landing with a loud thud and a groan.

The beast then speedily leaps up and tackles Josh, the front of his skull cracks against the door. He falls to the ground, with the beast’s demonic swine features becoming more blurry as he’s rendered barely conscious, he feels the bopping of his head along the steps as he is dragged down the stairs.

“Hello, goodbye.” the monster growls before it tears into Josh’s throat, with Liam still knocked cold beside him.

Outside the door, Christie is staring blankly at it, hearing nothing. Just a stark silence. Her mind is hollow. Numb.

_Christie._

A maniacal giggle follows.

_Christie._

Another giggle.

She slowly turns around, looking up to the second floor balcony. Without giving much thought to what she was doing, she saunters up the steps, still hearing a soft insidious giggling amid the creaks of her soles along the wood. She comes to a halt in front of an open door to a room filled with clown dolls.

In the corner is a dark-haired woman seated on a rocking chair, facing the stained glass windows. On her lap, one of the clown dolls wearing a yellow and blue outfit, with orange pom poms down its front. Its large eyes were turned downwards, and for a fleeting moment, Christie could swear she sees it blink.

“He said he loved me.” the woman offers quietly. Christie sucks in a deep breath, her mouth becoming dry, a thump thickens in her throat. Her heart races against her rib cage.

“Who?” Christie squeaks as the woman suddenly turns to look at her. Christie’s heart now feels as if it could stop beating completely at the sight she sees.

The woman’s face is but a half-skeleton, bits of flesh dangling from her chin, her eyelids non-existent, leaving her bloodshot eyeballs exposed like two small moons. Her irises like black holes. As she rises, the front of her dress comes into view, caked in dark dried blood.

“He said he wanted me!” she screams as she presents an axe, splattered with blood streaks. Christie screams hysterically, falling against the door as the woman comes at her. The giggling starts again, and Christie, to her utter shock and horror watches as the clown doll that was sitting on the woman’s lap becomes animated, moving on its own. It painted features now drawn into an evil glare.

All the dolls in the room were moving, waving their hands and giggling. A chorus of laughter chases after Christie as she takes off down the hallway, the insane woman following behind. She can hear the axe cutting through the chilly air as the woman swings it at her, barely missing Christie’s back.

She bounds down the stairs, almost stumbling, grasping the shoddy railing, cobwebs catching along her fingers. She runs to the front door, jiggling the handle, finding its stuck-or locked.

There’s no time to comprehend which, the crazed woman is coming for her. Only now, she has red stripes down her cheeks along the rotted flesh and bone. Christie dodges the swinging axe, making a play back up the stairwell. Still in shock, she holds in another scream, concentrating on finding refuge, running inside a room with a large leather chair, desk with a single lamp that was aglow, vintage record player and coffee table.

Inside, after she has closed the door and locked it. She stands, tears coursing down her beet red cheeks, a headache throbbing through her skull. Her whole body is trembling uncontrollably as she sinks to the floor, holding her knees, rocking.

If she could get to Josh. Or even asshole Liam would do.

Somebody. Anybody.

She remains in the same position for a few minutes, sniffling, tense, as she keeps her attention on the door, until she hears a crackling sound as the old dusty record player begins to play;

‘You’re motoring, what’s your price for flight, in finding mister right, you’ll be alright tonight.’

When the verse plays a second time, the needle begins skipping, the phrase, “What’s your price” repeating on a loop. Christie tightly covers her ears, tucking her head down.

_“What’s your price?” the man in the red truck asks Melanie, whose leaning against the door. They’re in the driveway of Melanie’s house, and it’s just after midnight._

_“Whatever you got-” Melanie says in between her loud gum chewing. The man then nods behind her._

_“Hey, we got company.” he mutters. Melanie turns to see Christie in her pale lavender nightgown, clutching her Raggedy Ann doll._

_“Mommy…?”_

_“Get your ass back in bed!” Melanie roars as she stalks towards her, pushing her up the porch steps._

Christie darts up, screaming as she runs at the record player, knocking it to the ground, stomping the shiny black of the record, smashing and cracking it. She continues to angrily pummel it with her soles, kicking the pieces aside. Her fury does nothing to drown out the forest of giggles she hears as she does so.

“Who is there?” she asks forcefully, feeling a new strength come over her. Her anger, her fear, were now colliding, blending, erupting in a powerful adrenaline rush.

She was done with this crap.

“Who the fuck are you?! Where’s my brother, you fuckers?!”

The voices quiet, hushing each other, trying to hold in their mocking cackling. The room is dark save for the tiny lamp, and the only thing she can make out are the feet of her assailants moving stealthily along the shadows of the corners of the room. Charily, they begin to present themselves, each clown doll stepping forward, each one different than the last, tall, short, inching out into the weak light. Their giggling starts up again.

“No,” Christie gives a small shake of her head. “No, this isn’t real. You’re just a dream. You’re the pizza and ice cream I gorged on last night. I must have fallen asleep in the car. Because this isn’t real.”

This instantly silences them. They all glance to each other, their worn and aged features almost looking…scared. Or worried.

“I wouldn’t say that. You’ll make him mad…” offers the one who was perched on the lap of the crazed woman with the axe.

She wasn’t real either. Just a ghost. A junk food-induced hallucination.

Christie, the emotionally intelligent girl that she is, now decided to wield her new power.

“You’re not real. You’re not fucking real.” she points a taunting finger. “You’re just imaginary. Just stupid dolls. I’m not scared of fucking dolls!” she finishes, almost laughing as she brings her fingers up to her mouth.

The room then starts to rumble, like an earthquake. The dolls all clamor back to the shadows, seemingly disappearing into the ratted and torn wallpaper. One utters an audible, “Uh-oh,” as they vanish from sight. Accompanying the thunderous shaking is a raspy roar, echoing around Christie as she runs to the room’s door, flinging it open, instantly being met with the axe woman.

“You’re not real!” Christie shouts defiantly, the woman shrinks back, lowering her axe. Christie takes the opportunity to then jump down the stairs, the edge of her sneaker catching on a piece of broken railing that is protruding from a step and tumbles, flying down the stairwell, landing at the bottom and rolling to the center of the living room. She remains there, until she opens her lids, feeling the warmth of the sun upon her color drained features. She gradually raises her head, before she pushes herself up and heads to the door. Stepping out in the brightness of daylight, embracing the warmth, she makes her way home, just a block away.

Standing in the bathroom of her bedroom, she observes her tired features.

It had been a dream. A very vivid one. But a dream nonetheless.

Josh and Liam had left her there clearly, not that Josh hadn’t abandoned her before. He would normally not have done that, but Liam’s influence was strong. Maybe when she passed out during that silly little seance Liam wanted to do. Or maybe in the car ride. But, didn’t she see something? She could have sworn she did. In the mirror. Or was that part of the dream too?

Oh well. Whatever happened, she was home now. Josh would turn up sooner or later. He was probably off smoking weed with Liam.

Assholes. Both of them.

She switches on the tap, gently splashing her face with cold water. She opens the medicine cabinet to retrieve the aspirin. She shuts it, and in the reflection, standing right behind her are Josh and Liam. She screams as she takes in their bloody and chewed facial features, Liam grinning his mocking leering grin. Just as the aspirin bottle hits the floor, she jolts awake.

Awake. Cold. Head pounding as she lay on the floor of Neibolt at the bottom of the stairs. She groggily lifts her aching body up, moaning in pain, placing her palm to her forehead. She lets out a defeated whimper as she sits, gazing around as the oval mirror that still sat leaning against the wall begins to roll out in front of her. Christie gasps, keeping her eyes on it as it comes to a halt a few feet away from her. Her heavy breathing is audible as she stares at it.

The surface of the mirror begins to ripple, her reflection fading as a massive white gloved hand emerges from the watery silver, wiry fingers wiggling, deep, rasping chuckles drifting out along with it as the ruffled sleeve of the hand appears. Then a bulbous head topped with fiery orange tufts of hair. Christie’s mouth is agape, her eyes bulged as she tries to inch away from Pennywise, who has now pulled his entire upper torso out of the mirror, bells jingling. Leaning on his fists, he grins, those familiar stripes distorting as he sneers,

“Time to float,” he growls before his features darken. “You are scared now, aren’t you?” he loudly sniffs the air. “Yes, you are. Real, delectable fear.”

He crawls out a little further, his visage becoming more irate, saliva strings dangling from his lips. “What a shithole.” he says, mimicking Christie’s voice.

Crippled with fear, Christie begins to scoot away, a tearful grimace forming, her legs kicking along the floor, before Pennywise’s hand shoots out, coiling around her ankle.

Christie shrieks as he drags her towards him as he retreats back into the mirror. With a flash of light, the surface is normal again, save for a few small orange electric bolts shivering along the glass.

As the mirror tips back over, the faint sounds of giggling begins, filling the rooms of the house.


	9. Derry Home Hospital-2016

It was past midnight. The hospital had quieted down in the hours after a distraught young man with a bruised bloodied face had been brought in. Kateri had treated him; a broken nose was the extent of his injuries. However, his mental state was in far worse condition. He'd spent the entire time whimpering, 'Adrian.' His eyes bloodshot and flooded with tears. He'd been brought in by the police, having been the victim of a vicious attack. No more information was offered. Kateri found herself turning away whenever her deep brown eyes met his pained watery ones.

He'd been slightly aggressive when he was first brought through the doors of the ER, forcing Kateri to summon three orderlies to subdue him. The whole time he'd been shouting "Adrian!" and some ramblings about a clown.

Kateri and Dr. Dooley had treated him, then he was taken to the police station for further questioning.

Kateri returns to the reception desk at the front of the hospital as Dooley heads home for the night. She enjoyed the serenity that happens at this hour when all the patients are deep in slumber and everything is silent. No running around, no yelling, no rushing. And the first order of business was to get herself a warm cup of coffee and try to relax after the stressful day. Occasionally, an orderly would pass, most notably Carlos, whose amorous advances she often rebuffed. The moment his elbows touched the white marble of the desk, she would promptly tell him to return to work, not even so much as looking up from her paperwork. He'd often retreat with a dejected look on his face, throwing a sly smile over his shoulder.

"One day..." he always says.

"Not likely." she'd retort without missing a beat.

She hadn't been a nurse for very long. About two years. And she was already tired of the job. Too much stress. Combative patients. Seeing things that often ended up in her nightmares. She'd always hated the sight of blood, but this job had helped her get over that phobia. Although she still had issues with a large amount of it.

Of course she knew going into it that this came with the job, but she wasn't prepared for the reality. She'd been young, idealistic and had the dreams of helping others. But she'd not prepared herself for the physical and mental burnout that accompanied it. Often she felt detached, her mind empty. Often her body was so exhausted she'd collapse onto her bed the moment she got home, still in her navy blue scrubs.

A shadow suddenly falls over her. She smiles, removing her reading glasses and looks up.

"Carlos you really need to-"

She stops cold at the sight of an incredibly tall older man with a white beard that obscured the bottom part of his face. She stares, pausing her page-turning. He was dressed in green scrubs, signifying he was a surgeon, but what he was doing here at this hour was odd.

"Um, uh, are you here for a patient? " she finally says as she inspects his outfit. It certainly looked legitimate.

"I'm...new here, to this area."

"I've never seen you in here..."

The man nibbles his bottom lip, bushy white eyebrows raising. "I've only been here awhile."

 _He sure is being vague_.

She slowly rises from her seat, hands along the desk, the crescent moons of her fingernails drumming along the top. She narrows her eyes, trying to glimpse what the name was on his ID badge without seeming too obvious about her suspicion.

"Wait here a moment please." she says calmly, giving a forced smile to mask her uncertainty before she steps out from behind the desk and to the edge of the hall, searching the corridor for any sign of Carlos or the other orderlies or Dr. Dooley. She glances over her shoulder at the man.

"Just a mo-"

He's gone.

"Sir?" she says as she scans the area, peeking at the exit. She hadn't heard the elevator or the front entrance doors opening. No evidence he'd went up to the upper levels or left altogether.

She spends the next fifteen minutes hunting around the area. He couldn't have gone far. But nothing. He'd vanished quietly, as if he'd not even been there.

Somewhat rattled, she drinks two more cups of coffee and decides to check on her mother Georgia, who's being treated for pneumonia on the second floor. She'd been brought in a week prior with a fever and chills. Her daughter had to talk her into going to the hospital. Georgia was a bullheaded woman, and it wasn't until she had experienced difficulty breathing that she relented.

"Hey," Kateri smiles as she enters, her cushioned heels lightly treading along the icy tiled floor. "How are you?" she queries as she brushes a gentle hand along her mother's head, her thick gray-streaked hair is pulled back in a loose bun, her heavy lidded eyes smile up at the sight of her only daughter.

"Oh, I think I would be better if I had a Snickers bar. Would you be a dear and just indulge me?" Georgia replies with a smirk as she pushes herself upright with a small groan, knowing her request would not be fulfilled, not with her Type 1 diabetes.

"Now you know you can't handle any Snickers-" Kateri begins.

"I know, I know," Georgia gives a dismissive wave of her hand. "Can't blame me for trying, huh?"

Kateri gives a reproachful smile as she silently fluffs her mother's pillow before pulling a chair up to the bed and sitting, fingering the gold cross that sparkles around her neck. She'd been wearing it since she'd graduated high school, a gift from Georgia, who had named her after Kateri Tekakwitha, a Mohawk woman who was the first Native American saint. Tekakwitha had been orphaned at a young age by the death of her family to a smallpox outbreak and her face scarred. She had also been subsequently shunned by her tribe for her conversion to Catholicism. Georgia had admired her and had hoped to make the trip to Rome in 2012 when Tekakwitha was officially canonized, but her ill health had led to her canceling her trip.

Her mother's faith had been a sore spot among the more traditional members of the Passamaquoddy tribe. Many saw the Mohawk saint as being a symbol of European colonialism. But her mother shrugged off such concerns and christened her daughter with the name that was Mohawk for Catherine.

Georgia had raised her alone after young Kateri's father had died when she was not even a year old from an epileptic seizure. Growing up, Kateri often stared up at the photo of him upon the mantel of the fireplace,with two half-melted candles on either side of the frame, noting she had his smile and nose.

She gazes down at the gold bracelet around her wrist with the turtle charms that jingled whenever she moved. Georgia gently takes her daughter's hand in her palm, examining the jewelry, running her fingertips along the smooth shells of the charms.

"I gave you that before you went to college. You still wear it." she says in a pleased intonation.

Kateri touches it. "The Turtle, grandpa always used to tell me the fable." she says.

Her mother's father Benoit was originally from Quebec and was a Mohawk iron worker in Brooklyn before relocating to Derry. He had related the stories of Iroquois legends to his children, including that of the enormous turtle who carried the world upon his shell.

"Such a storyteller, " Georgia adds with a wistful expression. "He knew how to weave a fable." She continues staring off, her pupils frozen against the opposite wall.

"You okay?" Kateri softly inquires, bringing her hand up to cup it over her mother's, squeezing gently.

"Fine." Georgia says, giving a light, barely audible sniffle before she collects herself.

Kateri touches her mother's cheek lovingly before she turns to leave the room, giving her one last glance before exiting.

"I love you mom."

"Love you too."

She makes her way to the elevator. As she presses the button for floor one, the lights flicker, barely even noticeable. This gives her only a moment's pause, before she presses the button again.

Another flicker.

A loud shouting shatters the quiet of the hallway as Kateri turns and runs towards the direction of the screaming, followed by Carlos and two other orderlies, Sean and Duke.

The unearthly yelling was that of Marvin Toft, who'd been brought in two days before after a drunk driving incident where he'd hit a ten year old girl crossing Kansas Street, proceeded to keep driving, speeding off the road along the Barrens and into the Kenduskeag, sustaining a head injury in the process. His blood alcohol level had been three times the legal limit, and he'd blamed his drinking on his recent firing as a bus driver.

_Probably because you were a danger to the children,_ Kateri had thought, but didn't voice her opinion. He would be facing felony charges upon his release from the hospital. He would go to prison and probably die there.

_Good riddance._

An unkind thought, but they were always reserved for the worst scum.

As they run into Toft's room, he is hysterical, pale arms flailing. Sweat beads glisten along the deep ridges of his forehead. The sparse white hair along his head unkempt. The bed itself is shaking violently as he thrashes about. Sean and Carlos grab a hold of his arms, while Duke secures his legs. Marvin continues his shouting, his bulging wild eyes look as though they may pop out of his skull.

"Get her out of here! Get her out of here!" he repeats, his inflection strained, his voice breaking from all the shouting he'd been doing. He'd been screaming about the dead girl in his room, the one he'd mowed down and left in the road to bleed out. He'd said the girl would appear normal to him at the foot of his bed, in a pink sweater with a unicorn on the front, but as the lights flashed, the girl would be covered in blood, floating up in narrow threads from the front of her skull. Or he'd wake up to her above him, her back to the ceiling, grinning.

"Get her out! Please!"

"Mr. Toft, there is no one there, I assure you." Carlos urges as Kateri moves swiftly with the needle. The only choice was to keep him sedated. His outbursts were becoming increasingly unpredictable. The night before, he had thrown his IV bag at Sean, and his breakfast tray at the wall, insisting he was trying to hit the girl, and angry as to why nobody else could see her.

"She's there fucking damn it!"

After he'd calmed down, his breathing languid, his pale blue corneas nearly disappearing up into his lids. "I just want her to leave me alone," he says quietly. "I didn't mean to kill that girl." He grimaces, tears starting to course down his pasty cheeks as he starts to quietly sob. "I didn't mean to."

Sean and Duke both retreat, with Carlos lingering in the room to watch Kateri as she takes Marvin's pulse. His sobbing had died down and his eyes were now completely closed, with his mouth slightly agape.

"What do you make of that?" Carlos queries, cradling his left elbow, his thumb to his bottom lip.

Kateri shrugs. She certainly believes in the spirit world, but as far as Marvin Toft goes, his visions of his dead victim were most likely the result of alcoholism or dementia.

"Seeing things. He's an alcoholic. Just hallucinations."

And, she figured, intense guilt. Oh well, she doesn't have any sympathy for an old drunk. She'll save it for the family of the child he'd killed.

As she moves to leave, she sucks in a sharp inhale as his clammy palm shoots out from under the sheets and clamps down on her wrist, the charm bracelet's chiming muffled by his firm grip. As she works to try to free herself from his surprisingly strong hold and before Carlos can intervene, he begins to speak, his expression stoic as he lifts his torso up to face her in a slow, rigid movement, looking like one of the undead rising from the grave.

"I saw it out there, by the river as I went in," he begins, his voice shivering, sounding dry and ancient. "A clown. Right by the water. His eyes were like two balls of fire burning. Even in daylight, they were glowing bright."

Kateri stops fighting to pry herself loose and stares at him as Carlos moves closer to the other side of the bed, his hand on Marvin's arm, gently pulling it away. Marvin continues as he voluntarily lets her go.

"They're all down there, you know. All of them. Jimmy is one of them."

"Jimmy?" Kateri breathes, gaze locked with his. He was so close now she could see the milky bloodshot white of his eyes.

"Jimmy and I used to play ball down at Bassey Park..." Marvin trails off, his cadence growing weary-sounding, his eyes closing once more. Carlos moves to take Kateri by the shoulders, gently but firmly directing her away.

Outside the room, as she closes the door, Carlos is giving a somber shake of his head.

"That was random. A clown...yeah...he's the second one to mention a clown." he says, working his jaw, his lips drawn into a contemplative pout.

"Hallucination." Kateri offers.

"But Hagarty, he was yelling about a clown under the bridge."

Kateri pulls in her bottom lip, ruminating over this strange fact. "Mass hallucination? I don't know..."

"Kinda weird they both mention it, huh?" Carlos continues, folding his arms. "I hate clowns. They give me the creeps."

"Hey, is there a new surgeon on staff? Some older guy with a beard?" Kateri asks. Maybe they had hired new staff without her knowledge. Although deep down, she knew this wasn't likely.

"No. Why?"

"Just asking. Someone came to the reception desk claiming he worked here."

"Really? If he shows up again, tell me. That sounds fishy."

"I will."

"Anyway, off to check on Elliot." Carlos says before he wonders off down the hall. The seven year old had just had his tonsils out and was prone to waking in the night, wanting his favorite orderly to read to him. Kateri heads back to the elevator, yawning as she pushes the button. An icy cold breeze tingles along her arms and neck, causing shivers to ripple along her back as she wraps her arms around herself. It's a few moments of waiting for the elevator when she feels the strong sensation of someone watching her.

Carlos maybe.

"Alright, funny guy. Thought you were checking on Elliot?"

She whirls around, her smile fading as she sees a shadowy, small figure at the far end of the hall. Her brows tighten together as comprehension of what she was seeing set in.

There was undoubtedly a little girl there. The lighting making her features indiscernible, blurry.

"H-Hello?" Kateri asks. "Are you lost?"

Almost immediately, Kateri knew there was something not right about this. There were no little girls on this floor, and the only children that were actually in the hospital were Elliot and another boy Nathan, who'd broken his arm in four places doing wheelies on his bike and was due to get a metal plate put in it.

Kateri's heart skips a beat when she glimpses the girl's clothing; a pink unicorn shirt.

The girl stays motionless, silent. Simply staring back. It remains this way until she begins to contort her body, loud crackling and crunching of bone echoes down the corridor. Followed by a giggle. Deep and not much like a normal little girl.

Then the girl takes a few steps forward-right to where Georgia's mother is housed-and steps inside.

Kateri takes off, running like a bat of hell down the hall, her shoes loudly squeaking and nearly slipping along the freshly-mopped floor as she comes to a sudden skidding stop in front of Georgia's room, catching herself on the door frame. Inside, the little girl is standing before her mother's bed. She turns as she sees Kateri, her smile morphing, elongated, nearly reaching her round eyes, with yellow stained quill-like teeth. Her pupils were like two little suns. Kateri stares at her.

_His eyes were like two balls of fire burning. Even in daylight, they were glowing bright._

Kateri stays, unable to even believe what she was seeing. But she was lucid, wide awake, pumped with the caffeine from three cups of coffee. She was alert.

And she was seeing this.

The girl then moves to touch Georgia's feet, letting out another ugly, decidedly un-girly giggle.

"Get away from her!"

Kateri pounces across the room, hands out, about to shove this thing away from her mother, when the ghost girl's flaming pupils are drawn to Kateri's charm bracelet, causing her to flinch backwards, her teeth bared, protruding from her chapped lips.

Kateri lands on the bed, shielding her mother as the girl demon-ghost or whatever this thing is, certainly not a little girl-retreats from the room, pausing at the doorway to send another disgruntled hiss back at her, the two firey pupils sparking.

Kateri remains splayed along the bed, trading her panicked gaze between her mother's sleeping mien and the doorway. Minutes pass, and it's clear her mother hadn't heard a sound.

How odd.

Her mother was a light sleeper, she would have woken up. Frantic, Kateri moves to check her pulse. She was still breathing. A glance at her vital signs showed she was stable. She touches her forehead as she pulls the covers up to Georgia's shoulders.

With a heavy sigh threaded with cautious relief, she moves and sits, turning the chair to face the door, nervously fingering her bracelet, listening to the beeping of the vital signs monitor.

* * *

Carlos was seated on the bed beside Elliot, with the boy's favorite book, 'I Am Pan!' by Mordicai Gerstein open on his lap. Carlos read aloud as Elliot listened intently, bringing his small finger to tap the page with the main character Pan, the Greek God of the wild.

"He was outside my room today." he says, unable to speak above a hoarse whisper.

Carlos grins. "He was?" he replies, giving the boy's ginger tuft of shaggy hair a small rub. "And what did he say to you?"

"He asked me if I wanted a balloon. He had a bunch of them in his hand. He was outside there-" Elliot points to the window. "Floating, like all the balloons were holding him up."

"Really?" Carlos says. The kid must be bored sitting in this room all day. His surgery had complications and he was required to stay another two days at least.

"He also said he wants me to come with him. He wants to show me Mount Olympus."

"That's exciting. Next time he shows, tell me. I'd like to meet him," Carlos says as he snaps the book shut and heads to the door. "Now get to sleep pal. It's late."

As Carlos switches on the boy's Kermit the Frog night light, Elliot sits up.

"I'm I going to die?" he asks.

"What brought that on? Of course not." Carlos replies, a little stunned as he moves to sit by the boy again, giving him a side hug. "It's all over now. You're fine. I know that was a scary experience."

Elliot had experienced what was known as anesthesia awareness, waking up during surgery, and was still shaken by it. Carlos tucks him back under the covers and heads to the door again, and as he does, Elliot calls after him.

"Hey, when Pan comes back, can you get rid of him? He's a little scary. I don't like him. He looked different then the book."

Carlos stares, his hand on the doorknob as he studies the boy. He looks genuinely scared.

"How so?"

"His teeth. He had really sharp teeth like a shark's. I don't like him."

* * *

_Kateri is sprawled on her stomach her grandfather's feet in front of the fireplace. The warm smell of her grandmother's cookies in the oven thick in the air as he finishes his tale of his canoe overturning in the Ottawa river and nearly drowning. But, he claims, he was saved by the great Turtle._

_"I was underwater, and I heard it, his voice, whispering to me. And I was able to swim to the surface, even with the current trying to push me under."_

_He looks down at his granddaughter, who is completely enthralled with the story, chin rested on her hands._

_"You will hear it. When you are in despair. You will hear the voice of the Turtle."_

Kateri is jolted from her dream by a noise. She'd fallen asleep with her head lolled against her shoulder and now she had a sharp pain along her neck and collarbone. Groaning, she shakily stands up, massaging the crook of her neck as she walks to the bathroom. The noise she'd heard sounded like a door slamming, or a cupboard. She'd barely even been awake when she'd heard it.

A dream maybe, just like that creepy girl. That had to have been a dream too.

She switches on the light and stands before the mirror, sniffling, running her damp palms along her cheeks. She grabs some kleenax from a box sitting on the sink and wipes the sweat from her forehead. As she does, that's when she sees it; a small, dark pitted scar just along her right cheekbone near the corner of her eye.

"What...?"

She reaches up to touch it, attempting to wipe it off in the hope it was a stain of some sort, when she sees another just below her right nostril. And another on her left cheek. Panicking, she switches on the faucet, the lights twinkle faintly as she dips her head down to splash some cold water on her face. She recoils as she glances back into the mirror.

Her whole face was now covered in the strange pock marks.

She shrieks, falling backwards, bringing her trembling fingers up to touch the markings. Each one oozing with white-yellow pus, streaked with ruby strings of fresh blood. Letting out a confused scream, she runs from the bathroom. She stops as she sees a cloaked figure kneeling beside her mother's bed, its back to her, weeping softly.

With tears stinging her eyes, she takes in a loud shaky breath, her intonation weakened by fear, but feeling stronger at the sight of a possible threat to her mother.

"Who are you?" she manages, her voice like a croak at the base of her throat. "Get away from my mother."

The figure abruptly stops its soft whimpering sobbing. Rising to its feet. Kateri can now see it was female, petite and holding something in her hands. Kateri's eyes widen and her mouth falls open as the figure is now looking directly at her with golden disks set within two bottomless pits of black.

It was indeed a woman and her pale sunken face was covered completely in small, deep scars. In her bony hands she held a wooden cross. Stunned, Kateri can't break her gaze away from the sight as the woman extends her hand out.

"Pray with me dear, pray, pray, pray..." the woman repeats as she draws near, seemingly floating along the floor rather than walking, the black robe fluttering out from behind her, as if there were a breeze in the room. "Pray with me and you'll float too." 

Kateri is now backed against the wall, fresh tears erupt from her eye sockets. The woman lets out a guttural, raspy cackle as she brings her scarred face within inches of Kateri's. Her breath is sickening, like rotting wood and decaying flesh. 

Fighting the nausea bubbling within her stomach brought on by the rancid smell, Kateri screams, bringing her palms up to shield herself as she feels the woman's rawboned fingers brush over her scalp. She squeezes her eyelids shut, willing it to just go away and leave her and her mother alone.

"No!"

"Hey, Harjo, what's the matter?"

As she opened her lids, it was not the disfigured woman but Carlos. Touching her head lightly, a visage of concern. Kateri stays against the wall, staring into his hazel spheres. She brushes past him and runs to her mother. Once again, her vitals are stable and she was breathing. Kateri then dashes to the bathroom, frantically touching her face as she looks into the mirror.

No trace of the scars anywhere.

Carlos is in the bathroom doorway, watching with concern. "What's wrong?"

"There was something on my face. and there was someone here. A woman and she had these scars all over and-and-" she falters as a sob comes on. Carlos grips her shoulders again, staring into her dark irises.

"Dream, you were dreaming-"

"No, Carlos, no. There was somebody in here. Then before I saw-"

Marvin's scream throttling through the halls disrupts the tension and the two bolt out the room towards his room, with Kateri sending a reluctant glance back at her slumbering mother. Inside Toft's room he's thrashing about, his vital signs monitor loudly pinging as his heart rate skyrockets. His hands clutching his chest.

"He's having a heart attack!" Carlos yells attempting to subdue Marvin as Kateri rushes to grab up the defibrillator. As she presses the two small slabs of metal to Toft's chest, as the monitor flat lines, as he falls limp in Carlos' arms. Kateri applies repeatedly applying volts of electric current into his chest. As she does so, she feels herself weaken, tears forming again as she continues pumping. Carlos grabs her wrists.

"It's done." he says above the monitor's ring, Marvin remaining still, eyes wide open, mouth gaping, forever set in a grotesque mien of terror. Kateri stares down at him, her breathing ragged. It's a few moments of silence before Carlos pulls the sheet over Marvin's head as Duke and Sean rush in.

"Aw, man," Sean says. "Sorry. we were in the basement."

'The hell were you doing down there?" Carlos demands.

"We saw something, Duke and I-"

"Yeah man, real fucking weird," Duke interjects. "I saw it first, it was..." he pauses, reticent to reveal the details.

"What? Spill it!" Carlos growls.

"A clown man! We saw a damn clown!" Sean says, embarrassment flashing across his features. "We went down there, ya' know, to see what was going on with the lights and, he was just...there."

"A fucking clown," Duke adds, in disbelief. "Has a bunch of balloons and everything. I don't know where he came from. Or how the hell he even found his way down there."

Derry Home Hospital had been expanded and remodeled over the course of one hundred years. Really only staff knew how to navigate the maze of halls and rooms. For a random to show up down in the basement was inexplicable, especially doing it undetected. Carlos and Kateri exchange glances.

This was getting too strange.

"I gotta move him down there. I'll have a look." Carlos says, gesturing at Toft's corpse.

"I have to get back to my mother," Kateri says, looking to the door, anxiety grabbing hold of her chest. "It's not safe." Whatever it is going on here, she needed to protect her mother. Even now, there could be something in her room with her. At this, Kateri rushes out the door while Sean and Duke resume their nightly parole.

In the basement, as the elevator doors open, Carlos pushes the gurney with Marvin's body down the narrow corridor, the sensation of the cold air like walking into a meat locker. The smell always unpleasant but he'd gotten used it along with the eeriness of the area itself.

He charily moves along, the loud squeaking of the wheels the only sound. He keeps a keen watch-no clown so far, the dim lighting making it difficult to even see if there was anyone alive down there. The place used to give him the creeps when he was younger and training and as the lowest on the totem pole, it was his job to take the corpses to 'the freezer,' as it was referred to.

As he enters the morgue, he laments that the body will remain until morning, since no one is around to tend to the guy. Carlos stays, examining the area. Letting out a sigh, he starts his way back to the elevator when he hears a moan. So faint her had to turn and walk back to make sure that's what he was hearing.

Upon entering the morgue, he glances around at the stainless steel tables and square doors-one compartment contained Ethel Merryman who'd passed several hours earlier. His eyes are drawn to the gurney Marvin Toft's body was on...

But there's nothing but the white blanket he'd used to cover him.

"Shit..."

No way, he was dead. For certain.

Carlos' breathing speeds up as he desperately scopes the room, it isn't until he steps back out into the corridor that he hears the moan again-louder and far more menacing. Near the far end of the hall was Toft, seemingly alive.

But he'd been dead. Without doubt.

Toft begins to lurch towards him, limping, hunched, looking like he was already rotting away. Even in the restricted light, Carlos could see his rib cage was exposed.

"The fuck..." Carlos' soles are glued to the floor in terror as Marvin's reanimated corpse inches closer.

* * *

"He's taking a long time, man." Sean says as Kateri paces back and forth at the foot of her mother's bed. He'd dropped in to check up on her and Georgia while Duke looked after Elliot who'd woken up, yelling about Pan being outside his bedroom window.

"Keep a close eye on her." Kateri gives Sean a gentle tap on the shoulder.

She was worried about Carlos. It had been too long-thirty minutes-and he wasn't back. She could feel it, a tightness clenching her stomach. She could sense it.

Something was wrong.

She runs-no time for walking-to the elevator,drumming her foot along the floor as she waits for the elevator. On the descent down, it stops suddenly as ther lights above flicker. Exasperated, she repeatedly slams the button.

"God Damnit! C'mon!" she shouts as she continues to smash her fist.

The elevator begins to violently shake, as if an earthquake was hitting the building, Kateri tumbling to the ground as she screams. The rocking continues as hands-scarred with bloody pock marks-burst out the sides of the metal panels, grabbing at her hair, attempting to claw her face, snatching her by the hands. She fights them off, cursing as she smacks them away, shielding herself from their talons. As they cease their attack and retreat back into the metal walls, the elevator begins to drop. Speedily descending downwards through the shaft.

Kateri shrieks, grabbing onto the handrail as it falls. She braces herself for the inevitable crash at the bottom, but then...

It stops. Smoothly, as if invisible hands had prevented it from hitting below. As the doors open, she sees him; Carlos, his back against the wall, staring off in a catatonic state. Kateri runs to him, nearly stumbling as her hands meet his chest. His heart was thumping against his chest cavity.

"Carlos..." she cups his cheeks in her palms, his skin cold and damp. "Carlos, speak-"

"Carlos! Carlos! Oh Carlos!" comes a high-pitched voice from behind her, sounding like a man imitating a woman's tone. Kateri gradually looks over her shoulder, still holding Carlos' face in her hands and sees a clown. Right in front of the elevator. He has the burning golden-yellow corneas, his costume almost blending into the sterile coloring of the room. His porcelain white gloves are clasped over the red pom poms on his chest, his odd, large egg-shaped head tipped to one side as he regards her, his grin showing off comical buck teeth.

"Carlos, kiss me Carlos!" he continues.

Speechless, Kateri keeps her gaze on him as the elevator doors open, waves of blood come spilling out of the doors, rushing past the clown's feet. The growing river of crimson splashing through the passageway.

"Carlos!" Kateri yells as she attempts to pull him to his feet, his body weight, however, was too much for her and he slumps over, causing her to lose balance and slip along the blood that was quickly flooding the area.

_Oh God, someone please help me. Oh, God._

Kateri, feeble and emotionally and physically drained, wraps her arms under Carlos' armpits.

She closes her lids, trying in vain to hold him up, the force of the thick blood flow and her weakened state diminishing her willpower. She holds Carlos tighter.

_You will hear the voice of the Turtle_.

A whisper, soft against her eardrums stirs her. She lifts her blood-soaked head as she sees the clown, his face no longer one of merriment but a deep, angry glower. She continues to hear the whispering. Gentle, kind and encouraging. The words were murmurs, but she could make them out amid the sounds of the bustling blood splashes.

The clown lets out a shrill demonic scream and then a flash, almost like lightning.

Then nothing. The walls are stark white again. The blood drained away. Not even a drop was left. Kateri sits up, checking for the tall ugly clown.

He was also gone.

Exhausted and relieved, she rests her head against Carlos' chest.

* * *

"I feel like a million bucks." Georgia announces as Kateri checks her heartbeat.

"Yes well, you still have a few more days to make sure." Kateri replies.

"But I'm fine."

"I know, but still..." Kateri smiles as she exits. "I love you mom."

"I love you too."

Kateri strolls only a few doors down, where Carlos is housed. He beams as she enters.

"Long day," she says, as he presents his arm for her to check his pulse. "You had a good scare."

"Still don't remember what it was." Carlos says as he blows a sigh through his lips.

"Good thing I'm here to look after you." Kateri teases as she strokes a hand through his dark curly hair that now sported a gray streak along the left side of his skull.

"Ain't I lucky," Carlos smiles, less the usual sly, flirtatious one, and more of admiration. "Think we'll ever really know the truth?"

Kateri shrugs. "Who knows."

She gives him a peck on the cheek and saunters out the door. As she does, she bumps into an older man with a beard. One she immediately recognizes.

"Excuse me," he says with a warm smile. "I should watch where I'm going."

"It's okay, it's fine." Kateri urges as she clutches her file folder to her scrubs, the golden turtles of her charm bracelet reflecting the light. The man gestures at it.

"I have an affinity for turtles.'" he says with a twinkle.

Kateri can't help but return the smile. "So do I. Excuse me, though, I must get going." Elliot was waiting, excited to be going home.

"Don't let me keep you." the man replies as he turns and strolls off, whistling to himself as he heads down the corridor. Kateri enters Elliot's room, but, on instinct, turns on her heel and quickly peers back out the doorway.

The man has disappeared.


	10. Edna Cotton-1906

**Edna Cotton-1906**

_Mike held them in his hands. Letters addressed to one Edna Diane Cotton. A notorious murderess from Derry's troubled and disturbing history. They were bundled together with a sinewy black cord, the envelopes stained a crinkled yellow. They'd been found hidden beneath the floorboards of one of the upstairs bedrooms of Neibolt house not long after Edna's death._

_As he sat down to read them in his clocktower apartment, the History of Derry book open on his desk, he gazes down at the photo on the page; a scene of passerby along a street. As he stares, the pedestrians in the photo almost appear to move._

It was Saturday. The moon was a crescent sliver in the inky sky, barely visible among the silver of the clouds that streaked along the skyline. The lights from the street lamps blanketed Kansas Street in a soft yellow-orange shade as the few people out at this hour strolled under their glow, their shadows gliding along the blackened cracks of the roadside.

Edna clutches her coat to her, the chill of the early December air nipping at her nose, a soft glossy pink from the winter winds. She glances at the other pedestrians; a young blonde woman, most likely what Edna's French maternal grandmother would call a fille de joie, "girl of pleasure," a middle-aged man with a gray-streaked beard in a thick ratty heavy coat and a flat cap hiding something under his arm. She could only guess what. A bottle of alcohol. A gun perhaps. Maybe he's going to settle a score with someone.

While Edna's imagination ran wild, playing out different scenarios, an elderly couple enter her field of vision. This makes her pause, her brown pupils glued to them as they slowly pass, whispering and laughing quietly to themselves as they round the corner. They briefly stop, the man cupping his wife's face as he plants a kiss on her. They join hands and continue walking, looking very much love.

_In love. Happy._

_Together._

Edna's breath is visible misty clouds under the warm light of one of the lamps.

_Joe didn't show up. Again. Now I'm walking home alone._

_He was with Nicola. Probably._

_Why am I doing this to myself?_

She presses her coat tighter to her torso as she hears a woman's giggling drifting through the air. She sniffles as she spots the young blonde woman she'd seen, now arm in arm with a very tall man in a gray suit. They stop in the middle of the street, talking, being too far away for Edna to decipher what was being said.

Eavesdropping. Not very respectable _._ Her grandmother had scolded her once for doing it, but Edna had a natural curiosity. She was, otherwise, nosy.

The man sends a quick glance in either direction before he guides the young woman along by the hand into the tenobrous space between two buildings.

The edges of Edna's brows knead together at this.

_Where is he leading her?_

_This young woman could be found dead in that alley tomorrow morning._

Edna promptly steps off the curb and crosses over, standing near the side of the building, hanging back, avoiding being seen. She waits and listens. More giggling and the sound of the two kissing.

_What am I doing? There's nothing happening other than what he's payed for._

Feeling embarrassed, Edna spins on her heel to leave. As she hurries past the alley, hoping neither one noticed her presence, an orange-yellow light flashes in her peripheral. She pauses and takes a few steps backwards, tilting her frame to peer past the wall, making sure to stay hidden and to confirm that she hadn't seen what she _thought_ she had _;_ the light seemed to be emitting from the couple.

Her eyes widen in as she sees the young blonde woman's face just behind the man's shoulder-her pupils were like eggshells, her mouth, the crimson lipstick now smeared, hung open as she stood with the material of his suit crumpled within her fingers. The odd light was seemingly coming from the man's mouth.

And for a split second, Edna could _swear_ she can hear screams, like voices deep within a tunnel. Screaming for help, crying, yelling in abject horror and pain. She's unable to look away, taking a sharp inhale followed by a gasp. Realizing it was coming from her, she clamps her palm to her lips, still unable to tear her gaze away. It was almost an out of body experience seeing this bizarre sight. Her brain unable to fathom what was happening.

Suddenly the light disappears and the man turns to look back at Edna, his eyes like two large shining gold coins. He lets go of the woman and she drops limply to the ground as Edna starts running, almost tripping, her heels nearly sending her tumbling forward. She ducks between two houses, her heartbeat thumping against her throat, he breathing loud and ragged.

She stays put. Closing her lids, she leans the back of her skull against the wooden side of the house. Just as her breathing slows down, she hears a rustling in the nearby brush. Panic sweeps over her as she looks to the bushes, seeing nothing but a large stray dog. White fur bright in the darkness.

She sighs in relief.

"You sure are clean, must not be a stray," she says as she steps out from the shadows to pat the pooch on his head. "Perhaps you have a nice clean home. In that case, you shouldn't be out."

With that, and with the bizarre scene she just witnessed dissipating from her thoughts, she heads back down the road towards her new home on 29 Neibolt Street. The dog watches her leave, its eyes sparking yellow as red stripes sprout along the bristly fur along its snout.

* * *

The following Wednesday, the day dreary and rainy, Jacob Frankel, a dark-haired child of ten sits beside Edna on the bench. The pads of his fingers on the keys of the piano, he dutifully plays the musical notes printed on the music sheets on display before them. It was mid-afternoon, and the lesson was almost over.

"Very good." Edna says, leafing to the next page as Jacob slowly finishes the final verse.

"Ready? One, two..." she says, pausing when she sees his eyes searching the room, his mien nervous.

"What is it?" she asks.

His dark, almost black pupils land on her a fleeting moment, before being drawn to the stairs.

"It's..." he begins, his hands dropping from the keys. "I feel a little strange when I'm here. Like, you know, being watched." He stops, his eyes turning up to gaze at her, his visage both worried and embarrassed to be admitting this. Edna touches the cameo on her white collar.

"I don't understand. Who do you think is watching us?"

"Just it feels like it. I can't really explain. It's just a feeling," Jacob continues as he presses down on a single key. "Becky, she sat in front of me in class..."

_Oh, that's right. The murders._

She should have known.

It started late Summer with kids disappearing weekly. Rebecca Haigh had gone missing a week prior and an extensive search turned up nothing but the blue silk ribbon from her hair speckled with a few tiny drops of blood on it. Eventually they discovered a ribcage submerged in mud in the Barrens. Investigators figured it had to be her. One of Edna's students Abigail Macchi had vanished on the way home from her lesson and her rotting corpse was also found in the Barrens. Abigail's family were convinced it was an anti-Italian perpetrator.

Edna shamefully had almost forgotten about her. In fact, forgetting that these children-and occasional adult-have gone missing was a sin the entire town was guilty of. Almost as quickly as a family reports their relative is gone, another one takes their place. There is an attempt at a search and an investigation, but then nothing. They are forgotten.

But Jacob hasn't forgotten Rebecca. The boy was sharp. Incredibly preceptive.

Edna touches his shoulder. He flinches slightly. "I assure you there is nothing here. It's just a house."

Although, it wasn't to Edna. To her, it was something else.

Her paternal grandparents had left her a hefty sum upon their deaths within months of one another, enough to purchase the home. They'd had very little contact throughout Edna's childhood. Her paternal grandparents had cut off all contact with her father Morris after he took up with her mother Ida, who was the daughter of French immigrants; a sailor and a seamstress. In fact, his parents had met with her mother in secret to pay her to leave their son.

"Don't bother, I'm already leaving." was Ida's nonchalant reply.

Morris, fond of the bottle, was not the most kind-hearted man. After the initial blush of love evaporated and reality crept in, things changed. After a few incidents of him raising both his voice and his hand to her, including him violently slapping her when she asked him to paint newborn Edna's room, she took the two month old and left.

"No man puts his hands on me." Ida had told Edna growing up. Morris never made any attempt to see his daughter and there was no financial assistance. He'd relocated to New York and never returned, wanting to escape "the stink of Derry. The whole damn town reeks of death."

Ida left Edna in the care of her mother Claudia while she earned enough money as a seamstress. She made enough to rent a small room in a boarding house. They lived modestly, and at twenty five, long after her mother and grandmother had both passed, a lawyer turned up at her door, informing her of her inheritance from her paternal grandparents. The thought of refusing it crossed her mind. She'd not been good enough to associate with when they were alive. Why take it? But, financially, she was not in the position to refuse. And upon realizing she could buy her dream house, she accepted. The lawyer offered a simple explanation for her being put in the will; guilt.

Despite being rundown, Neibolt was a mansion. Too big for her, but she'd always admired it. Ever since she was a child, she would walk past it, often stopping to take a tour around to the backyard and admiring the beautiful stained glass windows of the second floor and pick some of the glorious sunflowers that grew around it for her mother to display in a glass vase on their windowsill at home. It's as if something had been beckoning her towards it her whole life.

The fact that she owns it now was a dream come true. She didn't care about the morbid ghost stories. The horrible things that had befallen people who lived in it. At one point, she was told circus performers had owned it, which would explain the theme of the stained glass windows; clowns and circus tents. Families never lasted long. Everyone always either moved or they died. She'd heard something terrible had happened to the circus performers...

But it was just talk. Townfolk talking on corners. Sharing stories as they bought their groceries as the clerk whispered that he'd heard something ominous from a friend of a friend. Mostly just exaggerations, no doubt. Nothing more. She's not superstitious. She'd met Joe Mueller, a prominent realtor, when she'd met with him to buy the place. They had started exchanging letters, before it slowly turned physical.

Jacob may have heard the rumors about the ghosts.

"You think...it's haunted?" she gently inquires, although she personally had yet to experience anything. her mother, who held a fascination with the macabre, had implanted more of a curiosity about such things rather than fear.

He shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. But that man I saw in the attic window-"

"Wait, what man?" Edna straightens, alert, gripping him with both hands now. Jacob looks startled at her reaction.

"Some man in the attic window. He was looking down at me and Ma. She didn't see him though," he replies, his forehead creasing in puzzlement. "He was there but she didn't notice? It was strange. I thought maybe he was someone visiting you."

"No, there is no one here but me. Let's look." Edna declares as she rises to her feet, lifting her long brown skirt with her hands as she heads to the staircase, snapping up a kerosene lamp. Jacob follows as they make their way past the old clock with the roman numerals her maternal grandmother had gifted her.

She was certain he had to be seeing things. There was no one here but her. No sounds. No footsteps. Perhaps he'd seen a clown doll, like the ones in that room with the stained glass windows that she couldn't figure out what to do with yet. She couldn't bring herself to despose of them. They were oddly charming.

She was certain there was no intruder. It wasn't possible.

They stand just below the attic door, with Edna's hands on her hips. "I'm going up." she announces as she pulls the cord dangling down. The door loudly creaks as she yanks it open, cautiously sliding the ladder out.

"Careful Miss Cotton," Jacob advises. "I don't think you should be going up there." He takes a step back, as if anticipating her falling as she begins to ascend the wooden steps.

Edna gives a silent wave of her hand as she cilmbs up into the attic, a cold musty dampened smell rushing at her. She coughs as she holds out the lamp, charily making her way inside, and, as she suspected, nothing. The only thing she sees is a pile of small crates and an old hat box with a piece of crinkled cloth hanging over it directly in front of the window. The area was mostly bare and there was nowhere for any man to be hiding.

Stepping down, she points. "Nothing there. Just a piece of cloth in front of the window. That must be what you saw."

Jacob stares off a moment, blinking, rubbing his left temple. "But, I coulda sworn he had a face. Like hair and eyes and all that."

Edna shuts the attic door. "Well, your mind can play tricks. You maybe thought you saw it in the cloth. A pattern of a man's face and hair."

Jacob, now looking convinced and more than a little relieved, gives a tacit nod. "Sure, that could be it."

They resume the lesson, untl nearly two o clock, then he grabs his gray flat cap and coat and meets his mother Loni on the porch as she arrives to pick him up. As they walk along the pathway, he pauses and looks up at that circular window, spying three clown dolls, their hands pressed to the glass, their eyes focused on Jacob and his mother. Their red mouths distorted into unsettling grins.

"What is it dear?" Loni queries, squeezing his hand, following his pointed gaze, seeing nothing but an empty window.

"Nothing." he breathes as he hurriedly begins to walk, pulling his mother along with him.

* * *

That night, Joe appears under the blanket of darkness. He always came on Wednesdays and Saturdays, never in the daylight. Never when somebody could see. Somebody from his social circle. One of his wife's gossipy friends. One of his colleagues. With him, he had a large white flat box, wrapped in a soft pink paper and bow. Edna opened it, seeing a stunning sky blue dress with white lace trim folded neatly inside.

"I'm sorry," he blows a remorseful sigh through his lips. "I have to keep up appearances, you know. But, I'm glad you're not angry and didn't deny me the pleasure of your company. You are my tonic for the end of a stressful day."

"I know," Edna doesn't look at him as she removes the dress from the box and rises, holding it up to her shoulders. She hated the way they looked- like she was slouching. "I had to walk home on my own.""

"I know. I apologize. I couldn't get away."

Edna turns to him, the dress still pinned to her shoulders. "How does it look?"

"Beautiful," Joe says as he stands, touching her cheeks. "I told you though-"

"You don't really love her." Edna finishes, searching his blue corneas, trying to detect deception.

None. If he's a liar, he's a good one.

At least, that was what he'd said. Over and over for three months. Nicola was beautiful, with golden hair that cascaded along her shoulders that didn't slouch. She was wealthy, a lifelong resident of Derry's West Broadway. Edna had actually ran into her a few weeks ago in a drug store on Center Street. Edna, flustered, had told her that Joe was "helpful" in her purchase of her new home, and Nicola had seemed pleased at her gratitude.

Pleased and not suspicious.

"I told you I ran into her the other week. It was a little awkward.' Edna lets the dress drop from her shoulders, her chin falling against her collar.

"Telling her we've met was fine. She'll just forget about it. And if not, it will have no effect on us," Joe replies breezily. "At any rate, we've been careful. The people in this godforsaken town want gossip. I refuse to indulge them."

"You burned them right?" Edna asks. The letters she'd sent him could be found by Nicola, so Edna demanded that he destroy them.

'"It pained me to do so."

Edna gives a silent nod of approval as she turns back around to face a large square mirror hanging on the wall next to a painting of the Derry cemetary that belonged to her mother. She holds the dress back up to her chest as Joe approaches and places his hands on her fingers.

"It's cold," she says softly. "We need more kindling. I better go chop the wood."

* * *

The following morning, Joe exits before dawn. Edna makes herself a breakfast of toast and eggs and readies for the first student of the day, little Timothy Humphrey, followed by Dorothy Teel. Both had been escorted by a parent, none wanting to take the chance of their child being snatched up by whatever it was killing the children and being found mangled in the swampy Barrens. After both had left, she awaits Jacob.

And waits.

And waits.

But he and his mother never arrive. Edna stands on the porch, scanning either side of the street in front of the house, arms folded austerely. She didn't like to be made to wait.

A few hours pass, with a heavy rainfall beginning just after dark. As Edna is readying her dinner, there's a banging on the door.

"Who is it?' Edna touches her ear against the door.

"It's Loni, Jacob's mother!"

"Mrs. Frankel?"

Edna opens the door and Loni stood, her dark curls stringy and soaked, wearing a grimace of sadness and worry.

"Have you seen Jacob? He vanished out of his room last night. I reported it to the police, but they haven't done much. They said wait a few hours but it's been all day." Loni is almost sobbing. Edna gently guides her in.

"No I haven't." Edna replies as she tries to remove Edna's coat, heavy with rainwater.

"No, no please, just have you seen anything? I thought he'd come here." Loni pulls back from Edna's hands.

"No. He doesn't like it here. Just maybe he-"

"Ran away? _That's_ what the police suggested." Loni angrily responds. "They said it's not unusual for a boy his age to run off. Asked me if we had any strife in our house. If his father and me had any quarrels," she pauses to wipe away fresh tears. "He was in his room, then he was gone. Just like that. I tucked him in and later I checked on him-something told me to, for some reason- and his bed was empty."

_Jacob pulled the covers up to his chin. He was in that limbo right before sleep, but still awake. He's suddenly jolted by the loud creaking of his bedroom door,_ _the moonlight making its way through the thin material of his curtains, highlighting a tall figure just by the doorway, peaking in. Jacob's eyes widen as he studies it; no features, just pitch blackness with orange molten lava pupils set within. The figure begins to move, float, rather than walk inside. Farrther and farther until its towering frame-a least seven foot-is standing over his bed, still pitch black and featureless._

_Jacob is paralyzed, quivering fingers tighten along the comforter. An orange radiance then begins to emit from the being where the mouth should be, shining like a sun from within upon Jacob, whose scream is lodged in his throat, crippled by terror._

_As Loni opens the room's door, the bed is now empty._

Edna wants to comfort Loni, but is unsure how. They didn't know each other well, only casually. She meekly pats the woman's back.

'You think," Loni says. "It's like what the Macchi family said? They think it was some bigot who took their daughter. Maybe it's because we're Jewish..." she trails off as her expression shifts to anger. "One of our neighbors-Mr. Floyd-said he didn't want a kike family living next to him. It could have been him or any of the other terrible people in this town. Why did we come here? To Derry? Nothing good ever comes out of it."

Edna shakes her head. Given the anti-French sentiment her own family had encountered, it was possible. One man aware of her ancestry had lambasted her once for having ancestors who "intermarried with injuns and treated them equally." Derry was not a place of open minded acceptance. Anything certainly was possible.

'Yes, I definitely think that is possible." is all Edna says as she continues to pat Loni's back.

Sometimes silence is the best comfort along with an attentive ear.

They spend a few more minutes together, with Loni sobbing, before she composes herself and leaves. Edna stands with her spine against the door, shaky hand to her chest. Her glance travels in the direction of her mother's painting, and for a moment she gawks at it. Something was a little different. Brows knotted, she walks over, standing just before it. There, right in between two headstones, was a freshly dug grave.

_That wasn't there before._

Lifting a finger to touch it, she narrows her lids, leaning in closer. Maybe her mother had painted it, and she never noticed?

No, she didn't. Edna knew every inch of this painting. Had always stared at it, ever since childhood. That was not there before. It couldn't have been.

Or could it? Her mind, clouded with distress and worry, couldn't decide.

Feeling unsettled, she heads to bed. As it had been since she was eighteen, she had insomnia. It always struck when she was stressed or deeply unhappy. She opens the small drawer in the nightstand and removes a tiny bottle of chloroform and a handkerchief. Applying a small amount, she gently places it over her mouth, her vision soon falling black as her troubled thoughts fade out.

* * *

The next day, news quietly spreads that Jacob's body had been found in the Barrens, face up, his eyes gone, cradled on a cluster of mud-slicked rocks. At the funeral Edna once again tries to comfort a devestated Loni, who got up at the podium before her son's casket and ranted angrily about anti-semitism and how Derry is a "black pit of evil. I hope you all rot. This whole damn town deserves to burn to the ground."

Loni was dragged from the podium, weeping, her cheeks blushed with moist red. The shocked onlookers all piled out, with Edna swiftly making her way past the mourners.

As she arrives home, standing against the front door, her coat still on, she glances to the painting.

Another change.

Edna blinks back tears as she draws closer, she sees the freshly dug grave now holds a small coffin. Child-sized.

Now she _knows_ that wasn't there before. She remains staring at it and that's when she spots something else entirely new; a face peering out from behind a tree, attached to it was a shock of orange hair. The partly-covered features sported garish red paint along its lips and a bright golden pupil fixed on her, and what little she could see of the body had odd poofy sleaves.

Like a clown. It was standing right near the grave with the child's coffin.

Unable to fathom what she was looking at, her mouth agape as she cups her palms to her trembling lips.

_This can't be. This can't be happening. Nothing just appears in a painting. Mother didn't paint that. A clown. There was no clown in that painting before. There wasn't._

Then, the menacing figure behind the tree moves, stepping out with a bundle of red balloons in his gloved hand. The whole painting was now like a film reel, with the branches of the trees swaying in the wind and shadows swirling along the ground. Edna, shocked, opens her mouth to scream when she notices the small coffin opening and a dark-haired child emerging.

_Oh my God, Jacob. That is Jacob._

Her scream never comes. She is too terrified to either speak or move, her feet like weights pinned to the floorbloards. Jacob steps out of his coffin, wearing the white dress shirt and black slacks he'd been buried in. The clown figure continues to wave as the boy, pale with obsidian sunken pits where his eyes should be, begins to walk towards her, getting closer and closer within the frame of the painting.

Edna finally is able to falter backwards, falling down, her hands catching her as she keeps her gaze glued to the boy. He is now closer, peering through the frame, his whole head blocking out the scene. His hands reach out, emerging from the painting, becoming three dimensional.

"Miss Cotton," he says, giving her a creepy smile, his teeth yellowed and rotted out. A faint odor of dampened earth comes at her, causing her to cough.

Still choking on the rancid smell, Edna leaps up, almost tripping over her skirts and races towards the stairs. She slams the door to her room shut and locks it. She staggers to her bed, falling onto the mattress, her face twisted in a visage of terror. A knock comes.

_Please God, make it go away. Please make it go away._

_This can't be real. Just make it go away._

"Miss Cotton," Jacob is on the other side, his voice now raspy. "I'm here for my lesson Miss Cotton."

The voice then changes.

"Edna, darling. Open, open." comes Joe's voice, cooing and soft, until it turns angry and belligerent "Open it you whore! Open it now!"

Edna, now sobbing and hyperventilating, scrambles for her nightstand drawer, almost unable to open it with her fingers, now having violent tremors. She grabs the bottle of chloroform and handkerchief just as the door is unlocked by a phantom hand and busts open. But it's not Jacob or Joe; it's that strange clown figure, tall and wearing a lurid grin, still holding the bundle of balloons. Now having a full-blown panic attack, she quickly dabs the handkerchief and presses it to her mouth, with the menacing clown now hovering over her.

Whatever this thing was going to do to her, she wouldn't be awake for it. With that final thought, Edna passes out, the chloroform bottle tumbling to the floor and shattering.

* * *

A thick throbbing throttles through Edna's forehead as she sits up, hair a tousled mess, coat still on. She groans as she looks around. Her mind is blank, empty of any recollection of what had transpired the day before. She remembered Mrs Frankel making a scene at Jacob's funeral, but not much else.

Suddenly, a torrent of memories of the night before come back.

A nightmare. A horrible, vivid, very real nightmare brought on by Jacob's death.

Tha's all.

She makes her way downstairs, the morning light golden along the walls, making the room look cheery, only emphasizing what Edna sees next; a trail of mud-slathered footprints, one a child's, the other much larger, boots perhaps, leading from the painting. Edna draws in a sharp breath, staring at the evidence that last night's nigthmare had been very real.

With that, she runs outside, making her way down the street, mind confused and frightened.

_No, it wasn't real. No, Jacob did not crawl out from the painting. That clown didn't come into my room. No. No, it didn't happen._

_But it did. You saw the evidence._

She made her way along Kansas Street, coming into view of the Standpipe, walking rapidly until there was a pain in her abdomen. As she walked, though, she swore she could hear the thoughts of the people passing her by, even the drivers in their Ford models heading to work. Snickering, whispering about her. Everyone on the whole street stopping to stare at the disheveled woman. Suddenly, everyone begins to stop and shout at her.

_Whore!_

_Tramp!_

_Trollop!_

_We know about you and your dirty little secret! The whole town knows and they're laughing at how stupid you are. He'll never want you. You're just a slut._

The shouting becomes so loud and overwhelming she stops to pin her palms to her ears, crouching on the ground, head tucked down to her kneecaps.

"Shut up! Stop! Now! Stop it!"

The voices cease as a pair of large hands touch her shoulders. She glances up, bottom lip shivering, her dampened eyes meeting those of a tall auburn-haired man.

"You alright there, miss?' he queries as he helps her up. Edna instinctively backs away from him. There was something jarring about his face. His pupils were large and for a split second they seem to shift from silver, to gold, to sky blue. His mouth had an odd pout, his bottom lip jutting out as he grins at her.

"Yes, yes, fine." Edna stammers, unable to turn her gaze away. She continues to back away as he tips his black top hat at her.

"Be careful. People be disappearing left and right in Derry." the man says as he gives a slight wiggle of his brows. He then turns on his heel and walks off, whistling. Edna watches him for a few beats, hands clasped together at her chest. As he turns the corner, she speedily whirls around and down West Broadway. She comes to a wrought iron fence outside a white two-story house. She pushes it open and runs to the front door.

She knocks frantically and Joe opens. His wide eyes not looking one bit pleased. He steps outside and closes the door behind him.

'What are you even doing here?" he demands, his intonation not his usual smooth calmness.

Edna snakes her arms around his waist, touching her flushed cheek to his chest.

"Something terrible just happened." she whimpers into his cotton shirt. He grips her arms and roughly violently them. Edna looks at him with hurt.

"What are you doing here? At my home? You shouldn't have come here."

Edna stammers, taken aback at his attitude. She'd needed comfort and coming here was the only option in the storm of terror and anxiety roaring within her.

"I-I just needed to see you. Oh God, Joe something happened. I saw him. i saw Jacob-"

"Leave now. You must get out of here. Nicola is not home and you are fortunate she didn't see you." Joe cuts in as he roughly takes her by the upper arm and maneuvers her to the gate opening it. "Now Edna. _Now."_

Edna remains standing outside the gate for only a split second. Now somewhat lucid, she gathers herself and hastily retreats, realizing now the magnitude of what she had done. She had made a poor decision in coming. She makes only a single glance over her shoulder as she makes her way down the road.

Standing upon the roof of Joe"s home is the clown, a bundle of colorful balloons in his hand, waving. Edna only momentarily halts before turning and sprinting, letting out a hoarse scream that is drown out in the loud gust of wind that tears along the street.

* * *

Edna is sprawled along her bed, hands across her chest, staring at the ceiling. She had spent two weeks turning away students, her insomnia at its peak, lingering in her room, gnawing her fingernails almost bloody. She had not heard a single word from Joe. No letter, no weekly visits.

Voices. Only voices. Drifitng out from that room. The clown room. The one she now couldn't enter. Feeling those dolls eyes on her. She kept it shut and locked.

Still, she can hear them. Whispering and giggling and cackling.

And that clown that she kept seeing. Glimpses of him here and there. Sometimes only a blur of orange and white disappearing down the hall or up the stairs, taunting her.

It's another dreary rainy day as she turns away another pupil. That's when she notices the envelope sitting atop the mat in front of the door. Her heart skips a beat as she scoops it up, eager to read its contents.

At her kitchen table, she rips it open, the tattered paper scraps flutter to the ground as she scans the letter. As she takes it in, her pink lips quiver, a burning starting to bloom within the pit of her stomach. She clenches her teeth as she reads the words, written in thick bold letters;

_Edna,_

_You realize the tremendous damage you could have done by visiting my family home? Had Nicola been there, it would have raised an eyebrow, certainly. My neighbors have already inquired as to who you were. I told them you were merely a transient. It is absolutely in our best interest that we no longer see each other. I simply cannot seek a divorce. What would people think? And a mistress would never make a proper wife._

_I am simply sparing you any further hope. I am quite bored with this situation and you. Please refrain from any further contact._

_Joe_

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly by the time she finished, digging her nails into the paper, gritting her teeth tighter. She crumples the letter, storming over to the fireplace, she tosses it in the flames. They spark anew, her palms resting upon the words etched into the mantel, 'Good Cheer, Good Friends.'

The following day, her eyes sunken and discolored, she strolls along Center Street, wearing the pale blue lacy dress. Random passerby moving out of the way as she walks along in a daze. She stops cold as she spots Nicola step inside the drug store across the street.

Edna crosses and enters.

Nicola is at the counter, idly chatting up the pharmacist. She takes a small brown bag and turns to exit, waving goodbye at the bespectacled man at the counter. She promptly bumps into Edna.

"Excuse me, Oh Edna dear! How are you?" she says, a little taken aback by the purple crescents beneath Edna's eye sockets. They stand out against her pale skin. Paler. Nicola hadn't remembered her looking so sickly.

"I hope you feel well?" Nicola reaches out to touch Edna's shoulder. Edna stares at her blankly.

"No sleep is all. Do you have time for a cup of tea? I really need to have a word with you. How about at my home?"

Nicola looks surprised. She contemplates the offer a second. "Yes, yes, if it's urgent-"

"It is. _Very._ "

Nicola nods, brows arched. They make their way down the road towards Neibolt. Nicola was doing all the talking along the journey. Edna remains quiet, only giving affirmative nods.

_How she hated this woman. Her voice. Her mannerisms. Utterly annoying._

As they walk, they pass by the auburn-haired man in the top hat. He gives another tip of its rim. Edna sees him, but keeps her gaze ahead, mouth pursed tightly, a scowl forming as she continues to listen to Nicola.

As they enter Neibolt house, Nicola chirps, "I've never been inside here before."

Edna doesn't respond. She heads to the kitchen and makes the tea. They then sit at the table together, an odd silence draping over them, only broken by the clinking of porcelain.

"So, uh...that painting in your living room, with the cemetery." Nicola says.

"My mother painted it,' Edna says flatly. "She was fascinated by...dark things. She made her way on her own. No rich family or the like. Just relying on her own tenaciousness."

Nicola gives a nervous laugh. "Yes, my grandfather came on a boat from Ireland. He made his way with nothing but the clothes on his back."

Edna hums in response, gawking coldly at her guest. Nicola shifts in her chair.

"Dark things...you mean death? Death has always scared me." Nicola adds.

"Not me." Edna replies, suddenly more lively. "There's a comfort in how final it is. It's good to know it all ends at one point, don't you agree? It gives you a peace."

Nicola pauses her sipping. "I suppose so."

"I need to go fetch something." Edna announces as she rises up and heads out the kitchen door, towards a tree stump with an axe pierced in its center. With a hearty yank of its handle, she pulls it loose and walks back into the kitchen. Nicola's back is to her, still holding her cup.

"Yes, there is comfort in death." Edna says as she swings the axe and strikes Nicola in the top of her skull, the blade splitting her scalp. Her cup shatters to the ground as Edna continues to swing repeatedly, each blow more harder than the last, blood splattering along the pale blue fabric of her dress. As Nicola is sprawled lifeless in a pool of ruby, Edna drops the axe, her blank mien still present, and leaves her home. She walks along Neibolt Street, people passing by gasp and point as Edna comes to a stop in the center of the road. A policeman exits his vehicle and runs to her.

'Ma'am? Ma'am? Are you alright?" he queries, grabbing her about her shoulders.

Edna gives a maniacal grin. "I am now."

_Mike flips to a photo of Edna's execution, the crowd gathered round the gallows. Scouring the picture, just in the back of the sea of people, Mike spies a gangly tall man in a top hat, his mouth curled into a sly smirk._


End file.
